Terms and Conditions
by georges1982-96
Summary: High school AU. Told from six perspectives. Tony is carrying his inhaler again, Natasha's resentment of her parents grows each day, Clint's been acting weird whenever someone mentions his brother, Thor is barely eating, and Bruce is quietly falling apart. Steve can't help but feel like they're hurtling towards the edge of a cliff with nothing to stop them from a freefall. abuse.
1. Chapter 1

_**I know I should be working on my in progress stuff, but this story has consumed my life. It's going to be a long haul, so hopefully people are interested, because I'm having a blast writing it. **_

_**This is going to be an Avenger's high school AU (I couldn't resist), and it will be told from six different points of view. Hopefully, everyone will get equal screen time, thought the plot (yes, there is a plot!) is Bruce-centric. **_

_**OVERALL WARNINGS: language, slash, homophobia, sexual harassment, rape (non-explicit), violence, child abuse, and angst. **_

_**I will do individual chapter warnings. **_

_**Pairings: basically is a huge friendship fic, but some more specific pairings are Clint& Natasha, Clint/Natasha, Bruce&Tony (they are total bros), Bruce&Steve (and a little Bruce/Steve, later, maybe)**_

_**Alright, sorry for the long author's note!**_

_**I hope you like it:)**_

* * *

_"__You don't remember?"_

_ Coulson watched carefully as Bruce Banner shifted uncomfortably in the chair across from his desk, ducking his head so his thick, dark curls fell into his bright eyes. Banner gripped the edges of the wooden chair so hard his knuckles turned white and his nails dug into the underside of the seat. He was of a slight build, probably due to his father's obvious neglect, and the still fading bruises stood out vibrantly against the pale skin of his face and wrists. He tugged absentmindedly at the sleeves of the thick sweater he wore; it was two sizes too big for him, and it hung off his lithe frame. His gaze flickered up to meet Coulson's for a split second before he turned his attention to examining the rest of the room. Coulson watched him take in the wall of framed diplomas, the bookshelves, and the overly comfortable couch and chair in the center of the room. Bruce's hands moved to clench together in his lap, tangling his fingers together tightly; Coulson heard his knuckles crack. _

_ When he replied, his voice was low and hoarse._

_ "No. I don't remember anything."_

Bruce shut the cover of his Physics book, sticking his freshly graded worksheet between the pages to hide the red "79" from Tony before his friend could see it and start in on him. Tony, thankfully, was preoccupied with ranting to Thor about Star Trek, which Thor had apparently never seen. It wasn't that much of a shock; Thor had only been in America for two years now. That didn't stop Tony from taking every opportunity to antagonize him incredulously about his lack of knowledge surrounding pop culture.

"—can't possibly never have seen the reruns, I mean, really, they're on all the time, you practically live under a rock if you've never even—," Tony was cut off by the bell signaling the end of the period. He stopped in the middle of his sentence to whip around in his seat and face Bruce, saying solemnly, an amused light flashing through his dark eyes, "Bruce, we obviously need to invite Thor to our next Star Trek marathon. It's an injustice to have him spend four years in America without experiencing—"

"Mr. Banner, may I have a word?" Mr. Summers's voice interrupted Tony's thought, and he rolled his eyes slightly before standing up and shouldering his backpack. Mr. Summers stood next to his desk at the front of the classroom, staring at Bruce expectantly and holding his maroon grade book in one hand.

Tony quirked the corner of his lips upwards and cocked an eyebrow at Bruce suggestively. "Good luck, big guy."

Bruce glared at him, not appreciating the worn out nickname or the innuendo. Tony pretended not to notice, instead electing to follow Thor out of the classroom, asking loudly, "So, have you ever seen Star Wars, because those are classics—"

The door closed behind the last student, leaving Bruce standing across the classroom from Mr. Summers, his thick textbook clutched to his chest and his gaze darting around the room nervously. He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, his tongue suddenly feeling too big for his mouth, the same way it did whenever he was alone with his father.

Mr. Summers eventually took pity on Bruce and cleared his throat before speaking, "Bruce, I'm just a little…concerned with your grades this semester."

"They…I've maintained a steady C average in science since freshman year," Bruce replied, the muscles in his back tensing as he answered. He had noticed Summers eyeing the mediocre work he handed it suspiciously; he should have seen this coming.

"That's my concern," Mr. Summers crossed the front of the room and perched on the last desk in the second row so he was marginally closer to Bruce. He flipped open his grade book and pulled out a single sheet of paper from the center pages. Bruce recognized the columns and words printed on it as his transcript, and winced inwardly. "I couldn't help but notice that you maintain a steady C average in all of your classes."

Bruce shrugged awkwardly, forcing a small smile. "I guess I'm just average, then."

Mr. Summers bit his lower lip and placed his transcript on the desk next to him. "I don't believe that. I don't think you do, either."

Bruce tightened his jaw, pressing his lips into a thin line. He wasn't sure how to respond, so he chose not to, ducking his head to hide his face instead.

He heard Mr. Summers sigh softly. The desk creaked when he stood up again; he didn't try to move any closer to Bruce. "Your IQ is well above average, according to the test your class took on your first day of freshman year." He paused for a moment before asking softly, "Do you remember what it was?"

Bruce took a step back, running into another desk and sending it scraping back a few inches across the tile. He sidestepped it and tried to make for the door as discreetly as possible, desperately wanting to get out of there. "I…I should go, I'm late for History."

He darted out the door before Mr. Summers could call out to stop him. He wrapped his arms tightly around his book and forced himself to take deep breaths; he could feel the scars in the crude shape of the number 182 burning with sharp pain where they had been carefully carved just above his hipbone three years ago.

* * *

_ "I understand that you and Bruce are friends?" _

_ Thor considered Coulson's question for a moment, a thin line appearing between his fair eyebrows. Thor was drastically different from Bruce, and Coulson almost had a hard time believing they were friends. Whereas Bruce was hunched and full of restless energy, Thor sat completely still, his hands folded in his lap and his back straight. His file had said that he was the heir to the throne in Norway, and that his family had come over to America two years ago due to "extenuating, hostile circumstances" in their homeland. Thor reached up to push back a lock of wavy blonde hair and lifted his solemn gaze to meet Coulson's._

_ "Yes. He has always been kind to me."_

_ "Are other people not kind to you?" Coulson asked, leaning forwards, his pen poised over his yellow legal pad. "Have you had a hard time making friends here?"_

_ Thor swallowed hard, casting his gaze to the floor for a moment. "I…I have friends. I have good friends, who I would do anything for, but they all don't…" Thor trailed off and pursed his lips, searching for the words to explain it. "I meant nothing by that, save the fact that Bruce is my friend."_

_ Coulson watched Thor expectantly, waiting for more of an explanation. When Thor didn't continue, Coulson asked, hoping he wasn't pushing Thor too far, "And you were there that night?"_

_ Thor let out a long, deep breath and bowed his head. _

_ "Yes."_

Thor twisted the combination lock on his locker, praying silently that he would hear the telltale metallic click of the lock opening. He focused intently on the small white numbers, trying to line them up with the arrow painted on the lock.

"Still having trouble with that lock, Thor?"

Thor's heart jumped to his throat and his stomach dropped at the sound of his brother's voice behind him. He sucked in a sharp breath and turned to meet his brother's cold, mocking gaze. "I am fine, thank you."

Loki cocked an eyebrow and turned to direct his next statement at the small group of people behind him. Thor recognized them as Loki's "friends", but only knew one of their names. Eric Selvig stood towards the back of the group, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he watched the scene unfold before him. Loki mocked coolly, his lips curling into a cruel smile, "It only took you two years to figure it out. Maybe if you spent your time with more intelligent company you wouldn't be quite so thick."

Thor gritted his teeth and turned his back on Loki, returning his attention to his locker. He turned the dial completely around twice so he could start over.

He felt Loki's hand on his back and braced himself for the impact against the metal lockers, expecting Loki to shove him into them. Instead, Loki simply patted his back between his shoulder blades and chuckled softly, his low laugh dripping with disappointment. "It seems Endrik really did manage to tame you."

Loki's friends jumped away when Thor's fist slammed against the lockers so hard the doors rattled down the entire wall. Thor could feel the latent anger rising at the mention of that name, the boiling rage that simmered just below the surface of his laid-back, well-adjusted façade about to boil over. He clenched his fist tightly, until his fingernails dug into his palms and drew blood. He forced himself to take a few long, deep breaths, equally infuriated and grounded by his brother's slim palm resting lightly on his back.

Loki removed his hand, watching as Thor struggled to regain his composure with his head bowed and his hair falling in front of his face in a thick curtain of gold. His agony clearly showed in the lines of distress around his mouth and on his forehead, and Loki smirked disapprovingly. He stepped back from his older brother and said lightly, "It's not small wonder Father thinks you unfit to rule."

He turned on his heel and strode away without another word. Thor heard his group of brainwashed followers scamper to follow after him, not wanting to be left behind with Loki's unbalanced, infuriated older brother.

A muscle in Thor's jaw twitched as he hunched his shoulder and struggled to keep his breath from catching in his throat. The corners of his eyes burned and he dug his fingernails against the metal locker door until they cracked under the pressure. He could feel himself losing control, and he hated himself for it, which did nothing to lessen the pressure behind his eyes.

"Here," Thor started when Bruce's voice interrupted his thoughts. He blushed when he realized his eyes were wet and wiped at his eyes hastily. Bruce reached out past him and turned the lock until he could lift the latch and open the locker. Thor pushed himself up so he wasn't leaning against the wall of lockers and drew in a deep breath through his nose; Bruce politely pretended not to notice his tears.

Bruce pulled Thor's math textbook out of his locker and pressed it into his hands. Thor took the book gratefully and cleared his throat. "Thank you. I…I still find it difficult, occasionally, to get it open."

"It takes practice," Bruce replied mildly, carefully closing Thor's locker for him. "We had them in middle school, but I didn't really learn until eighth grade."

Thor smiled at Bruce, the tight feeling in his chest still there, but slowly ebbing. Bruce grinned weakly back at him, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. He took a few steps back and motioned towards the end of the hall. "Want to head to Calculus?"

"I do not wish to, particularly," Thor grunted good-naturedly, but fell fell into step next to Bruce nonetheless. "I have not been faring well in that class since October."

Bruce smiled and laughed shortly, something warm flickering through his dark eyes. Thor felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. Bruce shrugged and offered hesitantly, "If you need some help…I mean, I can go over some of the stuff with you after school every once in a while if you want."

Thor beamed at Bruce, his smile bright and wide, the traces of tears in his eyes already dry. "I would appreciate that very much, if you have the time."

"It's no problem," Bruce assured him, rubbing the back of his neck.

Thor pulled open the door to the math room and held it for Bruce, allowing the shorter man to duck under his arm into the classroom. He happened to glance up and catch a glimpse of Loki at the end of the hall, surrounded by his friends and laughing about something undoubtedly mean spirited. He tore his gaze away and stepped into the classroom after Bruce, unable to completely shake the painful, cold vice grip around his heart.

* * *

_"I understand you and Bruce are close," Coulson flipped through Roger's file where it was open on his desk in front of him. Roger's watched him warily, uninterested in the papers spread out on the desk between them. He nodded shortly and replied dutifully, "Yes, sir."_

_"How close, exactly?" Coulson asked, leaning back in his chair and trying to look casual and inviting. When he'd spoken to the teachers, a couple of them had mentioned they suspected Rogers felt something towards Banner that ran a little deeper than friendship, but Rogers's parents had been shocked (and even a little offended) at the suggestion. He doubted Rogers would admit any feelings he had for the Banner kid if he felt like Coulson would react the way his parents would. _

_Steve wet his bottom lip, weighing the responses in his mind. Coulson glanced down at the sheet of paper with Roger's psych evaluation; his parents had apparently had one done about a month ago. Steve raked a hand through his dark blonde hair, pushing the stray locks off his forehead. _

_Coulson prompted him further. "Friends?"_

_Steve nodded hesitantly._

_Coulson let the silence stretch for a few moments before he asked, "Maybe more?"_

_Steve swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably. _

_"I…I care about him."_

_"How much?"_

_Steve lifted his gaze and met Coulson's eyes without flinching, his bright blue eyes solemn and sincere._

_"A hell of a lot, sir."_

Steve dragged his pencil across the open page of his sketchbook, biting hard on his bottom lip as he darkened the line of Bucky's woolen jacket. He tapped his pencil against the corner of the page, gazing at the picture blankly for a few moments. His free hand unconsciously moved towards his pocket for his phone, but he stopped himself before he could pull it out. It wasn't Friday; Bucky didn't get to use the phone until Tuesday.

He forced himself to turn the page. Looking at pictures of Bucky only left him with a hurting stomach and a tight feeling in his throat. The next sketch was one that made him feel a little bit better. He'd been working on it since he'd gone out the previous weekend with Tony, Bruce, Clint, Natasha, and Thor. They hadn't been able to all be together for a few weeks with Thor's football practices, Bruce's erratic yet strict curfew, and Natasha's ballet rehearsals eating up most of their nights. Clint had managed to convince everyone to carve in some time to meet at the flashy 60's diner downtown that was decorated in all red and white with chrome accents. They had all crammed themselves into the corner booth and ordered dinneer; Tony ordered Bruce's as usual over the other man's protests, and the new waitress had gaped in awe at Thor when he rattled off his usual order, which consisted of enough food to feed the whole table.

Steve smiled softly and ran his fingers over the picture, recalling how happy he'd felt that night, how connected he'd felt. Tony was situated in the center of the booth as usual, frozen in the lines of the pencil as he gestured and ranted about something. Thor was on his right, watching him with a small, slightly confused smile on his face, his arms resting on the table in front of him. Clint was on Tony's left, leaning forward so he could talk to Natasha from across the table, smiling in that honest, goofy way he reserved for Natasha, whether he realized it or not. Natasha was in the middle of rolling her eyes; if Steve hadn't seen the faint blush on her neck, he would have never believed she was interested in Clint from the way she treated him more like a sibling. Her short curls were pulled back in their usual stiffly pinned up bun. Bruce was next to Thor, his gaze focused on Tony as his best friend spoke. Steve had worked to capture the mixture of exasperation and fondness that mingled in Bruce's expression when he looked at Tony, but he wasn't sure he'd gotten it quite right yet. Bruce had been more relaxed than Steve remembered seeing him in a long time, smiling and joking, and leaning into Steve's arm more heavily as it grew further into the evening. Steve recalled the feeling of Bruce's soft curls brushing the underside of his jaw and a feeling of warmth spread through his chest.

"School's been out for thirty minutes, Mr. Rogers," Steve started slightly when Mr. Erskine's voice came from over his shoulder.

He glanced up at the clock and blinked when he realized that Erskine was right. He hadn't noticed that he'd been there for so long. He'd just meant to stay in the art studio and extra five minutes to put a few finishing touches on his latest drawing. "Oh, wow, I didn't realize…I was just finishing. Sorry to keep you waiting."

"It's not a problem," Erskine assured him, dropping into the chair next to him and tugging Steve's sketchbook over to look at the page it was opened to. "Do you mind?"

"Uh, no," Steve shook his head and pushed the sketchbook over to him. "It…I mean, it's not finished. I just started it the other day…"

Erskine examined the drawing for a few long moments, peering through his glasses where they were perched on the end of his nose. Steve tapped his foot nervously, uncertain about what Erskine thought of it. He didn't usually like to show his unfinished work to other people; he felt like it showed a part of him that was weak and raw and horribly vulnerable, but this was his art teacher. He had to turn in something for a grade.

Erskine broke out into a small smile, running his fingers over the page. "It looks like you spent a significant amount of time on Mr. Banner's hair."

"I wanted to get it right," Steve agreed, scooting his chair closer to get a better look at the picture. "See, Natasha has curls, too, but hers are more rounded and defined when she leaves them down. Bruce's are more wild, more untamed, a lot thicker…" he trailed off, reaching to tug at his upper lip self-consciously, cutting himself off before he started waxing poetic about Bruce's hair any more than he already had. "I just wanted to get it right."

"Thor's expression is spot on," Erskine smiled, amused. "He looked exactly like that when I referenced the Kardashians in class the other day."

"The what?" Steve asked, frowning slightly.

Erskine scrutinized him for a moment, and gave a bark of laughter when he realized Steve wasn't joking. "Never mind." He turned his attention back to the sketch and pursed his lips. "This is really very good, Rogers. You're talented."

Steve shrugged modestly, brushing off the compliment with a grin. "Thanks."

Erskine was silent for a few more moments as he flipped through some of the older sketches in the book: Bucky asleep on the living room couch, drooling all over the cushions with a thin blanket draped over him; Tony working on one of his robotic arms, his face and hands streaked with oil; Thor on the football field after he'd scored, smiling and proud despite the blood running down his chin from a busted nose; Natasha in her leotard for ballet and a heavy winter coat two sizes too big, standing outside and waiting for her parents to pick her up for rehearsal; Clint leaning back in a chair so only its two back legs touched the floor, smiling lazily at someone off the page; Bruce raking a hand through his hair to push his thick curls out of his eyes as he bent over his Physics book, looking incredibly bored and completely exhausted.

Steve was pulled out of his reminiscing by Erskine's voice saying quietly, "You care for your friends very much."

"They're my friends," Steve said simply. "Of course I do."

Erskine nodded in agreement, smiling slightly. "Have you considered continuing your education in art?"

Steve blinked at stared at Erskine, his blue eyes wide. "Art school, you mean? I…I mean, I've thought about it, but I couldn't ever…it wouldn't…"

"Don't," Erskine held up a hand and shushed Steve before he could complete his thought. "Don't discredit yourself. You have a lot of natural talent here, Rogers. You must know that. I look at these pictures of kids I've only seen once or twice in the hallway since they've been here and I feel something for them." He paused, waiting for a reaction. When he got none, he elaborated, exasperated, "That means it's good. Art that makes you feel something…that's what art is for."

Steve bit the inside of his cheek and dropped his gaze to the table. He picked at a spot of dried yellow paint and shrugged. "I would…if I could do anything, I would love to study art."

"You're seventeen years old," Erskine said. "You're young and full of life and determined enough to make something of yourself. You can do anything."

Steve snorted softly and raised an eyebrow. "Not to be disrespectful, sir, but I don't think it's quite that easy."

"Of course it's not," Erskine agreed, grunting discontentedly and rising from the chair. "Not if you continue to have that attitude."

He crossed the room to his desk and shuffled through the stacks of papers and books on the surface until he found what he was looking for. He returned to Steve's side with two thin books and a couple pamphlets. He offered them to Steve, who took them and flipped one of the books open curiously.

"Bring them home, look them over, talk to your parents," Erskine said. He picked up Steve's sketchbook and added it to the stack of papers in Steve's arms. "At least think about it."

Steve stared at the books for a few moments, lost in thought. He couldn't say he'd never considered a career in art. He knew it wasn't practical. There was no guarantee it would pan out, and he could waste a lot of money on classes for nothing. On the other hand, it was tempting to think he could do what he loved as a career, that he could be a professional artist someday. It was a wish he'd never spoken aloud to anyone but Bucky.

He nodded shortly and looked up at Erskine to smile gratefully at him. "Maybe I will. Thank you."

* * *

_"I understand Bruce stayed with you for a short time," Coulson began, looking up from Natasha's file to meet her unwavering gaze. Her fiery red hair was pulled back in a tight bun, hairsparyed to her skull and pinned up until not a strand was out of place. She sat with her arms crossed, leaning back in the chair and regarding Coulson coolly, evaluatingly. _

_She shrugged and nodded. "He was with us for about two weeks."_

_"And you were friends before then?" Coulson asked mildly._

_Natasha nodded silently. _

_"While he was staying with you…did you notice anything about Bruce that was…different?" Coulson asked carefully, trying to pick the right words to make his point without setting her off. _

_"Different?" Natasha cocked an eyebrow curiously._

_Coulson shrugged and elaborated, "I mean, anything…anything like…aggression, unprovoked violence, unwarranted anger...?"_

_Natasha smiled bitterly at Coulson and answered honestly, "I think Bruce has plenty to be angry about."_

Natasha padded down the deserted hallway of the high school, clutching the strap of her sports bag in one hand and checking the time on her phone with the other. She sighed when the screen lit up to show the numbers 4:13 glowing white against her dark wallpaper. She had two minutes to get outside and meet her father out front.

She picked up her pace, tucking her phone back into the pocket of her heavy winter jacket.

"Hey, Nat!"

Natasha paused when she heard Clint call her name and turned around to see him running after her from the opposite end of the hall. When he caught up with her, she began walking again, allowing him to fall into step beside her. "Hey."

"You're heading out already?" Clint asked, glancing at the leotard and sweatpants she was wearing under her coat. "I thought you didn't have rehearsal until six."

"My parents thought it would be a good idea to extend them," Natasha replied, trying to keep the bitterness and resentment from coloring her tone. "I have to be there at five now."

"That sucks," Clint said softly, pursing his lips sympathetically. He studied her for a few moments before breaking out into a smile. "You know, you could sneak out the back door and come with me instead. Barney's going out with his friends tonight, so I officially have free reign over the TV."

Natasha couldn't help the small, wistful smile that tugged at her lips, but she forced herself to stop imagining that prospect before she could get attached to it. She shook her head and said, "I can't. They pay for these lessons, it wouldn't be fair."

"Someday you'll say yes when I offer you a way out of them," Clint warned her jokingly, bumping her shoulder with his own.

"I look forward to it," Natasha replied, rolling her eyes and holding the door for Clint so he could step out onto the front staircase of the school. She stepped out after him, tugging her coat around her more tightly against the biting air.

Her adoptive father's forest green Subaru was parked in the drop off lane, and she could see him tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel as he waited for her. She sucked in a deep breath, feeling the cold air seep into her lungs and leave a dull, frozen ache. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have fun, Nat," Clint joked, twitching his eyebrows apologetically.

Natasha shrugged and turned her back on Clint to descend the stairs. When she made it to the bottom and glanced back over her shoulder, Clint had already disappeared inside.

She ignored the distinct feeling of disappointment she felt when she didn't see him there, filing it away to deal with some other time.

She pulled open the passenger's door of the car and tossed her bag over the center console into the backseat. "Hey."

"How was your day?" Dmitri asked, waiting for her to pull the door shut before he put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.

"Fine," she replied, gazing out the window at the freshly fallen snow on the front lawn of the school, swallowing hard to try to make the tight ball of dread in her stomach unwind.

"I brought you some carrots," Dmitri offered. "They're in the cup holder if you want them." When she made no move to grab them, he added, "You should probably have something to eat. You don't want to get lightheaded and fall and hurt yourself. The last thing you need is an injury in the middle of the season."

"Hmmm," Natasha hummed softly, relenting. She picked up the plastic baggie of carrots and reluctantly peeled it open. "I guess not."

* * *

_"Will you please put that down?" Coulson tried not to get irritated as Stark turned the school counselor's lava lamp upside down to examine the bottom panel. The last thing he needed was to break something in here; the police department was just borrowing the office temporarily, and Coulson figured Fury wouldn't be happy paying for damages._

_Stark looked up at Coulson and placed the lamp back on the desk. "Sure. I just never really got the appeal of lava lamps, honestly. It just seems like they—"_

_"I didn't ask you to come here to talk about lava lamps," Coulson cut him off sharply. _

_"Oh, right," Stark turned the chair around so the back faced Coulson and straddled it. "You called me in here to try to get me to tell you something incriminating about Bruce. Well, good luck with that, because he didn't do anything wrong."_

_"A man is dead," Coulson pointed out harshly. "A man is dead, and you're telling me he did nothing wrong?"_

_"Sometimes things aren't as cut and dried as you'd like them to be, Detective," Stark said coolly, leveling him with a sharp glare from over the back of the chair._

Tony bounded down the hallway towards the parking lot, his keys jingling between his fingers. He pushed the doors open and stepped outside, barely feeling the cold air hitting his skin. He caught sight of a familiar huddled form perched on the end of one of the benches down by the drop off lane and smiled widely, taking off in that direction.

"Bruce," he called, waving when Bruce started and turned to look at him. "Hey, man, what are you doing out here? It's freezing."

Bruce gestured to his thin, battered jacket that was practically held together with four pieces of thread and strategically placed safety pins. Tony made a mental note to leave one of his jackets in Bruce's locker 'by mistake'. "I'm fine. My dad's picking me up. He wanted me to wait outside after school."

"You've been out here since after school?" Tony asked incredulously, pushing up his sleeve to look at his watch. 4:00. "For God's sake, Bruce, that sucks. I can bring you home. You know I can bring you home, why would you wait out here instead?"

Bruce shrugged self-consciously, running a hand through his ridiculous curls. "I just…he wants to pick me up today. I don't know."

"Call him and tell him you're staying at my place for the night," Tony offered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He didn't like the look in Bruce's eyes; it was too close to fear for him to brush off. "Let's go. Right now."

"You know I can't," Bruce said, shooting Tony an irritated glare.

Tony groaned and flopped down on the bench next to him. "You can, you just choose not to."

Bruce didn't argue. He glanced at Tony and his expression softened a little bit. "I want to. I just can't. My…my mom…" Bruce trailed off and let out a deep breath before continuing. "I just don't want to make him mad."

Tony was going to say something about how Bruce could be the picture perfect son and his father would still find a reason to be mad, but was distracted by Brian Banner's pick up pulling up to the curb in front of them.

The passenger's window rolled down and Bruce sprang to his feet, hiking his heavy backpack up on his shoulders.

"Sorry to break up the gossip session, ladies," Brian called from the driver's seat, his dark eyes flickering over his son and Tony impassively. Tony had always been struck by how goddamn similar Bruce's eyes were to his father's when they were such drastically different people. "But Robert needs to get home."

Bruce determinedly didn't look back at Tony as he hauled himself up into the cab of the truck. He slammed the door shut behind him. Brian waved at Tony and added, "Tell your dad I said hi, by the way. I haven't seen him around the lab much lately."

The passenger's window rolled up before Tony could get out a snarky response, and Banner tore away from the curb, his expression darkening as he said something to Bruce.

Tony stood there for a few moments, watching the taillights disappear around the corner and wishing he hadn't taken no for an answer and that he's just taken Bruce and dragged him to his car and forced him to come home with him so they could work on their latest project and Bruce could cook him some real food and Tony could be a hundred percent sure that Bruce wasn't lying on a floor and bleeding out somewhere.

Tony sighed irritably and stormed towards where his car was parked in the side lot, colorfully cursing out Brian Banner under his breath.

Tony's eyebrows drew together in confusion when he pulled into his driveway and two other cars were already parked outside. He didn't bother pulling into the garage, instead leaving his car parked next to the ones in the driveway and closing the gate at the end of the drive behind him.

He climbed the steps to the house, trying to recall if he'd invited anyone over, but nothing came to mind.

Jarvis was waiting in the front hall, pretending to dust one of the marble statues by the bottom of the staircase. Tony's stomach dropped; Jarvis intercepting him at the front door never meant good news. He dropped his bag onto the floor next to the door and approached the older man, demanding, "Who else is here? There are cars parked outside that I've never seen before and—"

"Your parents are home," Jarvis replied, dropping the pretense of dusting and lowering his voice to a whisper.

Tony blinked at him blankly for a few moments. "Parents? I didn't think I had those anymore."

"Their trip was cut short because your mother fell ill and wanted to come home and recover," Jarvis explained, glancing furtively at the entrance ways to the main hall. He added hastily, "Just the flu, nothing very serious."

"You're telling me the people who have missed my birthday every year for the past five years came home because of the flu?" Tony snorted, trying to keep his voice from sounding as hysterical as he felt. "Sorry if I find that hard to believe."

Tony and Jarvis both jumped when footsteps approached the hall from the kitchen and Maria Stark stepped into the room, swathed in a thick bathrobe and toting a box of tissues. She was pale except for the flush in her cheek and her eyes were red and watery, but she smiled when she saw her son. "Tony!" she crossed to room quickly and pulled him into a tight embrace. He stiffened uncomfortably and hesitantly patted her back in response, feeling painfully awkward. She let him go and held him out at arm's length to get a better look at him, smiling widely. "We missed you so much. I'm so glad we're home."

"Yeah," Tony said shortly, taking a small step back from his mother. His gaze flickered around the room restlessly. "'We'. I'm sure. Where's Dad?" he asked, noting the frown that crossed his mother's lips at his mocking mention of 'we'.

"He's upstairs," Maria answered, the exuberance fading from her expression. Tony wanted to kick himself; he barely ever saw her that happy, and he hated himself for wiping the joy off her face. "He has some business to finish up, but he'll be down to say hello in a few minutes. I was hoping we could all have dinner together and you could tell us about school, and your friends…"

"Yeah," Tony said softly, nodding sharply and desperately hoping to escape as soon as possible. He was overwhelmed, and he'd only been in the room with his mother for five minutes; the prospect of facing his father made his heart pound wildly in his chest, making it hurt. He wasn't pulling in as much air as he needed to fill his lungs and he swallowed hard, praying he'd left an emergency inhaler in his backpack. "Yeah, okay. I'll be…I'll be right back. I…I've got to check on something upstairs."

He snatched up his bag and took off up the stairs without waiting for a response, struggling to keep his breathing even, and suppressing the painful coughs racking his chest. He distantly heard Jarvis reassuring Maria that Tony was fine, and that nothing was wrong as he turned the corner of the hall and collapsed against the wall, scrambling to dig his inhaler out of the front pocket of his backpack. He struggled to pry off the cap and shook it, his hands shaking so hard he almost couldn't keep a grip on the slick plastic. He forced himself to exhale and shoved the mouthpiece between his lips. He pressed down on the top of the inhaler and sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes when he felt the droplets of medication coat his throat. He slumped back against the wall, coaching himself to breath in and out for a few minutes before attempting to hold his breath for ten seconds to let the medicine reach his lungs. He repeated the process once more before he could breathe freely again.

He sank the rest of the way down the wall, tilting his head back against the wall and trying to pretend the tears drying on his cheeks were because of the asthma attack.

* * *

_"You met Bruce in detention?" Coulson scanned Barton's statement and looked up at the kid slouching in the chair across from him._

_Barton looked utterly disinterested. He rocked back and forth on the back two legs of the chair and crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze focused somewhere out the window over Coulson's shoulder. He grunted in response, his gaze moving to focus on Coulson's face. "Yeah."_

_"Why were you there?" Coulson asked._

_Barton rolled his eyes and dropped the two front legs back to the floor. "Don't ask me a question you know the answer to." Coulson stared at him politely, keeping his expression blank. Clint sighed and decided to humor him. "I put tacks on my history teacher's chair. It was sixth grade, give me a break."_

_"Do you remember why Bruce was there?" Coulson asked mildly. He didn't want to indicate to Barton how important his answer was to constructing a profile for Banner._

_Barton shrugged and scrunched up his nose, thinking hard for a few moments before replying slowly, "I think he was in trouble for not handing in most of his work all quarter. And everything he did pass in he barely scraped up a passing grade on."_

_"Banner has a genius IQ," Coulson pursed his lips, slightly disappointed, but interested in the new development. "Why would he flunk on all of his assignments?"_

_Barton shrugged again, trailing his gaze over the figurines cluttered on the edge of the desk. "He was protecting himself."_

Clint scratched his temple with the end of his pen and squinted at his math book, trying to force himself to focus. He had another ten math problems to do, not to mention an English essay and a Chemistry worksheet to fill out, and he had no drive to do any of it. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head, yawning widely.

The sound of a car rolling up the gravel driveway caught his ear. He sighed irritably and pushed his chair back to rise to his feet. He slipped out of his room and tiptoed down the hallway towards the front door. He padded by his dad's room, pausing to listen at the door for a moment. He relaxed slightly when he heard deep, heavy snores coming from inside the bedroom.

The doorknob was rattling when he reached the front door, and he could hear Barney outside, cursing and jamming his key at the lock. His voice was slurred, and, if his aim with the key was anything to go by, he had almost no control over his fine motor skills.

Drunk. Again.

Clint unlocked the door and pulled it open. Barney stumbled over the threshold, toppling forward without the support of the door he'd been leaning against heavily. Clint caught him and managed to maneuver him to he could slide a shoulder under his younger brother's armpit. Barney wrapped his arms around Clint's shoulders and smiled goofily, "Clint! When d'ju get here?"

"I live here, idiot," Clint grunted, hauling Barney towards his bedroom. He reeked of alcohol. Barney stumbled over his own feet, detaching from Clint and collapsing in a heap on the couch. He laughed, groaned, and moaned lowly, "I feel sick."

"How much did you have?" Clint asked sharply, forcing himself to keep his voice low so they didn't wake their father.

Barney covered his eyes with his hand and shrugged, mumbling incoherently, "Dunno…five…six…"

"Damn it, Barney," Clint hissed angrily, his upper lip curling. "You can't do this every weekend. You're fifteen; you're going to kill yourself."

"I can take care of myself," Barney muttered, rolling onto his stomach and dropping his arm off the side of the couch so his knuckles brushed the soft shag carpet. "You're such a buzz kill…just because you and your loser friends are lame…"

Clint sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, trying not to be impatient, but it got progressively more and more difficult to deal with this shit weekend after weekend. He reached out to prop Barney up and help him stand. "You need to get to your room before Dad wakes up."

"Whatev'r," Barney grumbled, allowing Clint to drag him down the hall towards his bedroom. Clint shouldered the door open and hefted Barney onto his bed. Barney flopped onto the mattress and stayed sprawled out on his stomach, motionless.

Clint rolled him onto his side and tugged the comforter over him. He moved to remove Barney's shoes and place them next to the bed. Barney followed him with glazed eyes.

Clint tucked the corners of the comforter under Barney's shoulders and pushed his younger's brothers hair out of his eyes, his heart softening. "If you have to throw up, please try to make it to the bathroom."

Barney nodded shortly, and squeezed his eyes shut immediately afterward, his forehead creasing as if he was in pain. Clint stood up and took a step away from the bed. "Goodnight. Shower and brush your teeth before you come downstairs tomorrow; you reek."

Clint started for the door, but froze when he felt Barney's fingers wrap tightly around his wrist. He glanced back at his brother, trying to bite back the mixture of irritation and concern he felt rising in his chest.

Barney smiled at him, a wide, innocent smile the reminded Clint of when they'd been little, and said quietly, "Thanks, Clint…"

Clint bit the inside of his cheek and nodded shortly. He tore his wrist from Barney's grip and strode out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

* * *

**I'm sorry if it seems a little boring; the plot will pick up, I just want to establish some character background (which gets more in depth next chapter). **

**Please leave a review if you have a second! I really appreciate it, and it would make my week:)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So here's chapter two! I debated splitting it into two, but I hated to break up the flow, so here it is, all at once. I also had to fix a couple things in the last chapter (just a name mistake and a few other minor things, so it's not debilitating if you don't want to go back and re-read it; you should be perfectly fine).**

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, followed, and favorited. I really appreciate it, it's so nice to know people are interested.**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: child abuse (physical), mentions of depression, language, Loki being a bitch**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

_"How was your relationship with your father?" Coulson asked, scrutinizing Banner closely and watching for a reaction._

_Bruce's expression didn't change. He shrugged and picked at the knee of his worn jeans, unconcerned. "It was fine. Average, I guess. We had our differences, but we got along alright."_

_"You got along?" Coulson repeated, allowing his incredulity to seep into his voice. He flipped through the thick stack of hospital records, raising his eyebrows as he scanned the lists of injuries on each page. The doctors had made notes about Bruce's evasive replies to their questions, and his shaky claims that school fights were the reason he was there so often that they couldn't bring themselves to believe. Coulson didn't buy it either. "Did he know about the bullying?"_

_"He...he knew, I think," Bruce replied slowly. His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the small sliver cross hanging from the chain around his neck. "I didn't want him to."_

_Coulson smiled, slightly bemused, and asked, "He never contacted the school?"_

_"I told him not to," Bruce said. "I didn't tell him who it was."_

_"Who was it?" Coulson asked, setting the folder down on the desk in front of him so Bruce knew he had his undivided attention. _

_Bruce chewed on his bottom lip and stared down at his hands in his lap, not responding. His thick curls fell into his eyes, again obscuring his expression from Coulson's view._

_Coulson leaned over his desk and began listing the injuries he'd read off the pages so many times they words were practically seared into the backs of his eyelids. "Five years ago: a broken wrist, four fractured ribs, five cases of burns ranging from first to third degree. Four years ago: dangerous blood loss, broken arm, concussion, infected contusions across your back: Three years ago: six broken fingers, three broken ribs, dislocated shoulder. Two years ago—"_

_"What's your point?" Bruce cut him off sharply, looking paler than he had before. His hand closed around the cross, curling into a tight fist. _

_Coulson met Bruce's gaze solemnly. "Those don't sound like injuries you get from some kids pushing you around."_

_"What are you trying to say?" Bruce demanded through gritted teeth, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. Coulson could tell he was fighting to keep a hold of his tenuous grip on his self-control._

_"Did he ever hit you?" Coulson asked bluntly, expecting Bruce to at least flinch, or look taken aback._

_Bruce raised his eyebrows, schooling his expression into one of innocent confusion. "Hit me?" He shook his head and fixed Coulson with a look of stunned disbelief. "No."_

Bruce closed the front door after his father and attempted slip away down the hall before Brian could stop him. He cursed inwardly when he was jerked back roughly by Brian's hand gripping his backpack and yanking him hard towards the kitchen. "Not so fast, Robert."

Bruce hunched his shoulders and reluctantly allowed his father to drag him into the kitchen. Rebecca Banner was standing at the stove, poking at something in a pan with a wooden spatula. She looked up from the pan when Bruce stumbled in after Brian, and her expression darkened. She forced a smile and asked, her voice tight, "Hi, boys. How were your days?"

"Mine was going pretty well, actually," Brian answered, his voice deceptively light and pleasant. He jerked Bruce's backpack off his shoulders roughly and let it fall to the ground. "Until Stark informed me of something very interesting."

He shoved Bruce away from him, hard. Bruce caught himself on the kitchen table and whirled around to face Brian immediately, the edge of the table digging into his back.

"You wanna know what I heard?" Brian demanded, crossing his arms and surveying Bruce coolly. Bruce gripped the edge of the table so hard he heard his knuckles crack and fixed his gaze on the peeling linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor. Brian reached out and shoved Bruce's chest roughly. Bruce tore his eyes from the floor and met Brian's gaze of cold fury uncertainly. Brian raised his eyebrows and snapped expectantly, "Well? Do you?"

Bruce nodded quickly, shrinking back against the table and trying to make himself as small as possible.

"I heard that you were out last week with those friends of yours," Brian snarled, advancing on Bruce and crowding him against the table. Bruce ducked his head in an effort to protect his face in case Brian got violent. It was always harder to explain away the bruises on his face. "And that you were getting pretty friendly with that blonde kid."

Bruce kept his gaze focused on his battered sneakers, hoping against hope that his father wouldn't notice the blush rising up the back of his neck. He tried to push himself back further, but the table was already flush with the wall on the opposite side.

"Don't just stare at me like a fucking idiot," Brian snapped. Bruce glanced over at his mother, his eyes wide and pleading for help. His stomach plunged with disappointment and betrayal when he saw her back was still facing them as she sautéed the vegetables at the stove. Brian reached up and gripped Bruce's chin in his hand, his fingers digging in to his jaw until Bruce was sure they would leave bruises. He forced Bruce to look up at him and snarled, "Don't look at her. She can't help you. What kind of man are you, looking at your mom to save you when you're scared, glomming onto men in public like a shameless whore?"

Bruce flinched a little but at the insult despite himself. His dad called him everything from stupid to bitch, but whore was by far his favorite.

Brian jerked Bruce's face towards his and snapped, "I want a fucking explanation, Robert."

Bruce nodded as best he could with his chin in his father's iron grip and struggled to put together an articulate sentence, stumbling helplessly over his words. "I wasn't, I was, he's not…he's my friend, that's it, that's all, Dad, I was just tired, I wasn't thinking…"

"Well, that's nothing new, fuck-up," Brain snarled, glaring down at Bruce with disgust and anger in his dark eyes. "Maybe if you could pay attention for two seconds, you wouldn't keep embarrassing me like this."

"I didn't do anything," Bruce blurted out, searching his father's face for some sign of rational thought. "I was next to him in the booth and there were four other people there, it was packed…"

Brian cracked Bruce across the face with an open palm. Rebecca flinched as if she was the one who'd been hit, but said nothing and didn't turn from the stove. Bruce kept his head turned to the side, his dark curls falling into his face, breathing hard in an effort to stay calm. His cheek stung from the slap, but it sure as hell wasn't the worst he'd taken. He felt blood trickle down his chin from where his father's wedding ring had scraped across his skin.

"Did I ask you any of that?" Brian asked, raising his eyebrows in mock curiosity. "No wonder you're failing all your classes, you're so fucking stupid. Can't even follow simple instructions. Was I using words that were too big for you? Do you need me to dumb it down so you can understand?"

"No," Bruce replied softly, ducking his head submissively again, regretting his outburst. "No, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you are," Brian agreed coldly. "What the hell is wrong with you? I give you everything I can, I send you to a good school, I feed you, I put a roof over your head and all I ask is that you try to not to be a freak. Why is that so hard for you?"

Bruce shook his head wordlessly, afraid to dig himself into a deeper hole by talking more. Brian tangled his other hand in Bruce's hair, tearing at his thick curls and forcing him to bend over backwards to remain upright. The toes of his sneakers lost their traction on the tile and he lost his footing completely. His fell flat on his back on the tabletop, and would have stayed that way if Brian hadn't had a tight grip on his hair. Bruce was forced to grip the edge of the table and hold himself up to keep Brian from tearing his hair out of his scalp; his toes brushed the floor, but he wasn't tall enough for his feet to rest flat on the tile. Brian's face was so close to Bruce's, Bruce could smell the alcohol on his breath when he growled, "You'll stay the fuck away from him from now on. Do you hear me? I don't want you anywhere near him."

"Yes, sir," Bruce gasped, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick tiles.

Brian suddenly let go of Bruce, catching the smaller man off guard. Bruce slid to the ground and landed under the table in a shaking heap. He covered his face with his hands and took slow, deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. His father's heavy work boot connected with his side, sending a fresh shot of pain through his already severely bruised ribs (courtesy of Brian's rage after Bruce had come home ten minutes late the previous week), and Bruce curled up into a smaller ball in the vain effort to protect himself.

Brian snorted in disgust and spit at Bruce, grinning coldly when he flinched. "When you're finished cowering under the table because of a little discipline, go clear the driveway."

Bruce didn't open his eyes and uncurl from his ball until he heard his father's footsteps fade down the hall and the bedroom door slam shut behind him. The water in the master bathroom turned on, and Bruce let out a shaky breath; he had at least fifteen minutes to relax while his dad showered.

"Oh, Bruce," Rebecca breathed softly. She abandoned the stove the second Brian disappeared from the kitchen and knelt at her son's side, reaching out to brush his hair out of his face. Bruce flinched from her touch, but she persisted, moving to help him sit up. She tilted his chin up gently to get a good look at the damage to his face.

Bruce ran his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting blood; he could feel the dark bruises forming along his jawbone. Rebecca ran her fingers lightly over the blossoming bruises and bit her bottom lip, her eyes shining with tears. "Bruce, baby, I…I'm so sorry…"

"'S not your fault," Bruce assured her hoarsely, clearing his throat. "Don't…"

Rebecca swiped her tears away, but more quickly formed to replace them. Bruce reached out to take her hand and rubbed his thumb across the inside of her palm, choking out quietly, "Mom…please don't cry, this isn't your fault…"

"I can't, Bruce, I just…I…" her voice broke with repressed sobs and she held her hand to her mouth, struggling to keep them from slipping through her lips. "The way he talks to you, the way he treats you…"

"Stop, mom," Bruce hushed her softly, squeezing her hand tightly and allowing her to wrap her arms around him and embrace him tightly. Her tears soaked into his jacket as she sobbed silently into his shoulder, dampening the fabric. He patted her back and muttered soothingly, "It's alright, I'm fine. I'm fine. Please, please don't cry, Mom, he hates that…"

He held his mother until she managed to pull herself together and wiped away the tear tracks staining her cheeks. He reached up and gripped the edge of the table to pull himself to his feet before reaching to help her stand as well. She touched his cheek and shook her head minutely, gazing down at him with eyes full of regret, concern, and pain.

Bruce managed a trembling smile; it was enough.

She turned back to the stove and checked the vegetables, moving on as if nothing had happened. Bruce rubbed his hands over his face, wincing when they came away streaked with blood, and shuffled back towards the front door to retrieve the snow shovel.

* * *

_"You're graduating in a few months," Coulson stated simply, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose you have plans for college."_

_Steve nodded warily, clearly unsure of where this change of subject was taking them._

_Coulson pursed his lips and asked curiously, "What are you interested in doing after high school?"_

_"I like to draw," Steve replied stoically, no trace of warmth in his tone._

_"And you want to do that professionally?" Coulson asked, raising an eyebrow. _

_Steve's gaze dropped to the ground and he shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of his worn jacket. He shrugged and replied quietly, "I don't really know."_

Steve bounded up the front steps of his foster home, clutching the books Mr. Erskine had given him to his chest. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became at the prospect. He hadn't dared to think of art school since Bucky had left last year. Bucky had been encouraging, and supportive, and everything Steve had needed him to be when it came to encouraging him to apply to art school, but after he'd left, Steve had fallen back into the vast, swirling pool of self-doubt.

His foster parents were both in the kitchen; Rick was stirring a pot of pasta on the stove and Sharon was clearing the table of the papers and miscellaneous art supplies that had accumulated there over the course of the week. She smiled at Steve when he came into the kitchen and greeted him warmly, "How was your day, hon?"

"Good," Steve replied, practically vibrating with excitement. He placed the books down on the table and turned to Sharon, pressing his hand to the cover of the book on the top of the pile. "Really good, actually. I was talking to my art teacher, and he wants me to get a portfolio together and maybe send it in to some schools."

"An art portfolio?" Sharon asked, and by the tone of her voice Steve knew she desperately wanted the answer to be no. His stomach sank.

Steve hesitated and considered for a split second backing out, but pressed on determinedly, "Yeah, an art portfolio. He thinks I have enough talent to get in and maybe make a career out of it."

"I…Steve," Sharon and Rick exchanged a glance, and Sharon took a seat at the table, motioning for Steve to sit down across from her. Steve complied obediently, dropping into the seat on the other side of the table. Sharon rested her elbows on the table and sighed regretfully before continuing, "I think it's great that you're so interested in art, and we know you're talented, but we never thought you would want a career centered around it. Don't you think it would be better to keep it as a…as a hobby?"

"It's what I've always dreamed of doing," Steve murmured softly, embarrassed to admit it out loud around anyone but Bucky. It sounded ridiculous and childish then, even to his own ears.

"I know you love to do it," Rick said. He turned to lean against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, regarding Steve contemplatively. "But you have to start thinking practically about your future. You have to be able to support yourself, and someday you'll have to support a family. Being a starving artist won't be appealing for long."

"I won't know if I never try," Steve pointed out, twining his fingers together under the table. "I really think I can do this. I have to know if I can do this."

"We're not asking you to stop drawing, we're just asking you to be realistic," Sharon corrected him, reaching out to grasp his hands. Her gaze flickered over his face, scrutinizing him closely. "If you decide to go to art school, there's no guarantee you'll be able to make any money off your work. It's all chance, Steve. Don't you think you should pick a good, solid major that will help you get a career you can rely on? You should go to college, find a nice girl, pick a respectable career, get married, buy a house, have children…We just want so much more for you than to just scrape by."

Steve swallowed hard, his throat dry. He shrugged and muttered, "I don't…I'm not sure if that's what I want."

"What do you mean?" Rick asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "Just because James decided not to go to college—"

"This isn't about Bucky," Steve cut Rick off before he could finish, not wanting to hear what his foster father had to say. He dug his fingernails into his knee, forcing himself to take a deep breath before he added more calmly, "I'm making this decision on my own."

"We are making this decision together," Rick said sharply. "We're your parents, and we deserve some say in what happens to you. You're not going to art school."

"Rick—" Steve protested, looking up to meet Rick's somber gaze. "Just let me—"

"No," Rick repeated firmly, turning back to the stove to stir the pasta. "We're not going to let you throw your future away for a stupid hobby you can constrict to the weekends."

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but couldn't find the words he needed to explain himself. It had made so much sense inside his head, and when Bucky talked to him about it, but saying it out loud to his parents was a completely different scenario. He felt ridiculous. Deep down, he knew they were right. It was a ridiculous dream to be successful in such a competitive field of work. There were so many people so much more talented than he was; there was no way he could ever measure up to them.

He ducked his head and shrugged, nodding reluctantly. His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and he tried to shrug it off. "I…it was just an idea."

Sharon smiled apologetically at him. "Good. We don't want to discourage you, dear. We just want what's best for you."

Steve forced an understanding, sheepish smile and rose to his feet. He picked up the pamphlets he'd left on the table and stepped back towards the hallway. "I…I'm going to go upstairs for a little while."

"Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes," Rick called after him.

Steve bit back the sharp retort that formed on his lips, forcing himself to keep walking without responding. He stepped into his bedroom and closed the door behind him, overly conscious of not slamming it. He strode over to his bed to drop his backpack onto his mattress, tossing the brochures into the trashcan next to his desk on the way by.

* * *

_"You're on the football team?" Coulson raised his eyebrows and peered at Thor from over his notepad. "That must make you a lot of friends."_

_"I associate with many people," Thor corrected him, not impolitely. His sharp blue gaze drifted from Coulson to the window behind him, focusing on something outside. "I would not consider them all friends."_

_Coulson nodded respectfully, slightly taken aback by the distinction. "That's very insightful of you," he commented dryly. "Your father says that you were out running the night this all happened. Do you run frequently?"_

_Thor nodded, replying hesitantly, "I…I find it helps to clear my mind."_

Thor flew by the landfills on the outskirts of the town, his worn, dirty sneakers pounding against the slush on the pavement and drenching the legs of his sweatpants with freezing cold water. The muck that had been churned up by the plows caked the street; his shoes made a loud squelching sound every time he pulled them out of the mud to slog on through the wisps of falling snow.

He rounded the corner and started down the next street, heading back towards the town center where the house his family was renting was located. He slowed his step slightly, considering going for another lap around the town. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Loki or his father. He'd barely been able to escape from the house without breaking down in front of everyone, and though he felt better after his run, he still felt as if a few harsh words could lodge into the cracks of his rusting armor and easily break him open.

Halfway down the street, he passed the Banner's house. He glanced up at the ramshackle duplex, and was shocked when he saw Bruce in the driveway, wrapped in his thin jacket and shoveling snow with a determined edge to his movements. Thor paused at the end of the driveway, waiting for Bruce to notice him.

Bruce caught sight of Thor at the end of the drive and cursed under his breath, ducking his head again immediately. He hadn't even gotten a chance to clean the dried blood from his face; he hadn't expected to have to face anyone out there. He cleared his throat and waved at Thor, calling hoarsely, "Hey, Thor."

"Bruce," Thor greeted him, striding up the drive towards where Bruce was leaning heavily on his shovel. He motioned down at his damp jacket and sweatpants, offering an explanation, "I was…I was out for an evening run."

"Perfect night for one," Bruce commented mildly, ducking his head and running a hand over his face, the cuts across his cheek and lip burning.

Thor looked up into the dark sky at the falling snow, watching it come down around him. He shook out his damp hair and sighed deeply. "Some nights it is better to be out of the house, regardless of the weather."

Bruce hummed noncommittally, trying not to think about the nights that his dad had made him sleep outside in the pounding rain, or the nights the temperature had dropped below freezing. He couldn't count the number of times he'd been brought to the hospital because of a dangerously low body temperature after a night locked outside.

"You're bleeding," Thor said suddenly, narrowing his eyes. He could just barely make out the pool of blood on Bruce's bottom lip and the torn skin on his left cheek. He stepped closer, not noticing how Bruce stepped back just as quickly, and reached out to pull Bruce closer to get a better look at him. "What happened?"

Bruce laughed self depreciatingly and rubbed the back of his neck. "I slipped on the ice. Fell down the stairs."

Thor tried to look more closely at the marks, accepting the excuse but still concerned. Bruce withdrew another step, raking a hand through his hair and glancing back towards his front door. "I have to head inside. I…I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night," Thor replied, allowing Bruce a chance to escape his scrutiny and disappear inside with a muttered goodbye. "I will see you tomorrow."

The door closed silently behind Bruce, and the front hall light flickered on. Thor stepped back onto the sidewalk and hesitated a moment before taking off in the direction of his house.

* * *

Thor's cheeks and fingers stung when he stepped from the biting air into the warm foyer. He toed off his sopping sneakers and knelt down to peel off his damp socks. When he straightened up again and started to pull of his jacket, he realized he wasn't alone.

Loki leaned in the doorframe of the dining room with his arms crossed over his chest, watching him shuck off his dripping outerwear with a dark flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Thor stiffened and crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring his brother's pose and feeling strangely exposed in a thin t-shirt and dirty sweatpants. "Hello."

Loki rolled his eyes, his upper lip curling as his gaze lazily wandered over Thor, something like disgust reflecting in his dark eyes. He didn't say a word, simply disappeared around the doorframe with a sound.

Thor was tempted to follow him and ask what was wrong, what he'd done to upset Loki that day, but was too tired even to call out after him. All of his limbs suddenly seemed unbearably heavy, and a cold, tight knot tugged at his chest. He stared at his jacket where it was crumpled on the floor, but couldn't bring himself to pick it up. He rubbed his arm over his eyes and started towards his room, his bare feet dragging over the plush carpet.

He collapsed into his unmade bed and tugged the thick blankets around his shoulders, cocooning himself in his comforter. He allowed his heavy eyelids to fall closed and nuzzled his nose against the fabric of his blankets.

Sleeping was better than dealing with the feeling as if he'd just been ripped open and had his heart and lungs carved out of his chest.

* * *

_"Your parents seem set on you becoming a dancer," Coulson commented, amusement coloring his tone when he smiled at Natasha. "When I spoke to them they relayed your family history to me."_

_Natasha quirked an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. Coulson could see her shoulders grow tenser and she demanded irritably, "What's that got to do with Bruce?"_

_"Nothing," Coulson admitted. It was interesting, he mused, that she got even more defensive and cold when he brought up her personal life. He could relate. "I just thought that since it seems like we're going to be here a while, we might as well get to know each other."_

_"I'd rather not," Natasha smiled icily, her green eyes startlingly blank and unreadable._

_Coulson's self-assured smile slipped for the first time._

"Natalia!" Madame Koshkov trilled, poking her long, sharp nail into the small of Natasha's back. "Back straight!"

Natasha complied, fixing her form before she continued with the warm up exercises. Koshkov pursed her thin lips and scrutinized Natasha thoroughly before she said, "You were late today. It wasn't because of that boy again, was it?"

"No, ma'am," Natasha replied through gritted teeth, keeping her gaze focused on her image in the mirror in front of her. She could tell it was going to be one of those days; she'd taken lessons from Madame Koshkov since she was two, and her teacher had no qualms about prying into her personal life.

Koshkov nodded shortly. "Good. He's no good for you. Nothing like the man your parents have chosen for you."

Natasha forced herself not to cringe at the mention of the man her parents were attempting to set her up with. Michael Kramer. Even his name sounded boring.

She sucked in a deep breath, trying to push the thought of her impending "date" with him Saturday night out of her mind. She still had time to get out of that. She was torn between feigning sick and pleading too much homework.

"I have heard of talk of marriage, even," Koshkov raised a thinly penciled eyebrow and eyed Natasha curiously. Natasha's face remained schooled into a stoic expression despite the disgust that rolled in her stomach at the word, and Koshkov carried on loudly, "With it being so serious between you two, Natalia, it is unsightly to be seen with the men you associate with, especially the Barton boy. No chaperone, spending most of your free evenings with five men…people may talk."

Natasha bit her tongue and forced her lips into a complacent smile, as usual; yes, ma'am, whatever you say, ma'am, of course you're right, ma'am.

She fumed inwardly as she continued to work through her warm up, forcing herself to remain outwardly calm. It made her unbelievably angry when her parents or her dance instructor alluded to her friends taking advantage of her. If they took one second to look at her friends, then maybe they'd see that she wasn't in any kind of danger. Tony was afraid of her (as he should be; she could kick his ass six ways to Sunday if she felt so inclined).

Bruce didn't touch anyone, and no one was allowed to touch him without express permission; Natasha couldn't blame him. She'd seen the bruises and marks on Bruce's body when his sleeve got caught on something, or the hem of his shirt rode up. He had every reason to be afraid of being touched; the only thing he knew to associate touch with was pain.

Thor was so preoccupied lately that he probably wouldn't look twice if she walked into his room naked; besides that, he was too much of a gentleman. She couldn't quite shake her perception of Thor as an overexcited, loyal puppy; the image was only strengthened by his open smile and the thick blonde hair that fell into his face. Despite his strength, she couldn't imagine Thor ever hurting any of his friedns intentionally.

Steve was so disgustingly head over heels for Bruce (even if neither of them noticed), that she had no chance it hell with him, even if she was interested. She'd noticed lately that Steve looked at Bruce like he wanted nothing more than to just make things better for him, and Bruce seemed less exhausted and skittish when he was talking to Steve. Both of them were firmly off limits.

Clint, on the other hand…

Natasha had known Clint since they were three. They'd been in daycare together and inseparable since they'd met. He had her back; she knew that. When someone had started a rumor sophomore year that she had slept with the entire football team, he'd verbally cut down anyone who had dared to sneer at her in the halls or call her a whore. He was her best friend. He always had been, for as long as she could remember.

Lately, though…she suspected her strengthening feelings for him were slightly more than just friendly.

Which was completely unacceptable, of course. Her parents had picked out a suitor for her, and he was nice. He was kind. He was polite.

He was really damn dry and boring. He hadn't once made her genuinely laugh.

"Natalia!" Koshkov shrieked again, tapping the mirror with her nails to regain Natasha's attention. "Feet pointed!"

Natasha heaved a heavy sigh, rolling her eyes at herself in the mirror, and complied.

* * *

_"Your parents were away a lot, aren't they?" Coulson asked, leaning forward in his desk chair and resting his elbows on the desk. "Your teachers mentioned they didn't meet them until very recently."_

_"They work," Tony replied, shrugging unconcernedly. "I can't exactly complain."_

_"Did they have any opinions on your friendship with Bruce?" Coulson asked, noting Stark's sudden change in body language. _

_Tony stiffened and his upper lips curled slightly at the question. His fingers fumbled with his watch, undoing and refastening the clasp restlessly. "They much rather would have had me hanging out with Rogers. They thought he was a good influence."_

_"They thought Bruce was a bad one?"_

_Tony's hands clenched into fists and he glared down at the carpet. He forced is voice to remain steady when he replied, "My father never took the time to find out anything about Bruce besides his grade point average."_

Tony tapped the edge of his plate with his fork, glancing up at the clock impatiently. It had been fifteen minutes since they'd sat down at the dining room table and his mother and father were still not finished eating. He was putting the finishing touches on the robot arm he'd been working on for the past few months, and he was anxious to finish it.

He also had to call Bruce at some point, to make sure he was okay. Brian had looked pissy, and Bruce's nights never went well when his dad was in a bad mood.

"How have your grades been?" Howard asked, breaking the slightly uncomfortable silence that blanketed the table.

Tony raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "How do you think?"

"I asked you," Howard replied testily, placing his fork down on his plate and straightening up.

Tony rolled his eyes and shrugged. "They're good. Just like usual. Of course, when I say usual, that would imply you actually know what usual was, so…"

"Don't be smart with me," Howard snapped, rubbing his temples. A thin line appeared between his eyebrows, and he met Tony's gaze from the other side of the table, his eyes disarmingly honest and open. Tony shifted uncomfortably, unsure of where to look. "Listen, Anthony, I know your mother and I have missed some things in your life we shouldn't have. Do you want me to apologize for having a job, for supporting this family with a company I single handedly run?"

Tony bit his bottom lip, holding back a reply. He hated when his dad started with that crap; Tony knew he had a lot to juggle, but he also had Obadiah Stane to help him out if he needed it. He rarely let Obie take care of anything on his own; God forbid the great Howard Stark ask for help.

Howard swallowed hard and leaned back in his chair, looking suddenly very tired. Maria laid a hand on the crook of his elbow and moved her gaze from Howard to her son. "What your father is trying to say, is we're going to be home for a while."

"A while?" Tony repeated, perplexed by the announcement. He had to admit it threw him a little bit. The longest his parents had been home since he'd hit fifth grade was two weeks. Usually his only company was Jarvis, Bruce, and occasionally Obie. "How long is a while?"

"Six months," Howard replied, watching Tony expectantly for a reaction. His smile slipped slightly when Tony's expression didn't change from incredulity. Tony wasn't sure what his dad had expected; he certainly wasn't going to throw a Welcome Home party or hug anyone because his father was suddenly showing a mild interest in his life. "There's been a lull in advertising until we finish with our most recent product, so I can work from home."

"Oh," Tony said softly, dropping his gaze to his picked over plate. He ignored the emotions battling in his chest, forcing himself to remain silent. It felt like hot anger was tearing at his insides, making his stomach hurt and his heartbeat pick up. What right did they have to come home and demand his attention, reenter his life because it was 'convenient', decide that now they were going to be parents?

Howard pursed his lips, disappointed. He'd obviously expected Tony to be more enthusiastic; he wouldn't dare hope for a hug, but he had allowed himself to imagine a smile, at least. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and unlocked the screen, clearing his throat and continuing gruffly, "Your mother and I also recognize we have been exceedingly lenient on our parenting style as of late. We've established a couple new rules. I just send the attachment to your email."

Tony's upper lip curled at the word 'rules', and he reached to pull his phone out of his back pocket. He opened the email and scrolled through the list, his eyebrows drawing closer and closer together incredulously with every item on the list he read. "Bedtime? I haven't had a bedtime since I was four. And curfew? C'mon, Dad, I'm seventeen. I can—" he froze and reread the last thing on the list. "No friends on school nights? Yeah, sorry. Not gonna work. I do not accept the terms and conditions."

"It's not an option," Howard smiled stiffly, linking his hands together in front of him and leaning forward onto the table. "It's not up for negotiation, Anthony. We are your parents, and we have to set boundaries. According to the cameras, you got home at two a.m. last Friday."

"I was with my friends," Tony argued, rage simmering in his stomach. "Speaking of which, there has to be an exception for Bruce on the no friends during the week thing."

"Banner?" Howard snorted, his expression darkening. "God, Anthony, you still spend time with him? He's currently barely maintaining a C- average in school, according to his alcoholic of a father. Why don't you spend more time with that Rogers kid you're friendly with? He's so much more acceptable for someone like you."

"Bruce had got an IQ of 184," Tony stated firmly. He hated it when people shot down Bruce's intelligence, especially when it was Bruce himself who did it. He had worked so hard to convince other people he wasn't smart that he'd convinced himself along the way. Tony had learned that if you could get Bruce talking, if you could get him relaxed and not worrying about what his father would do to him if he found out that he had a brain in his head, Bruce was fucking brilliant. Some of the things he came up with blew Tony's mind. Tony was smart, he knew that, but he'd always been more hands on. Bruce had theories and understanding and abstract concepts so far out there that he had a hard time following sometimes, and he was Tony fucking Stark; and get the kid started on biology, on molecular mutations, on the human body and you couldn't shut him up. Bruce was a genius, more so than his father, and Brian shamed him for it, used it to humiliate him, and forced him to be so afraid of it that Bruce intentionally brought his grades down to get Brian off his case. It made Tony sick to see Bruce basically flunking Chemistry when he could teach the class without even glancing at the textbook. "And maybe his alcoholic of a father is the reason he needs a place to stay sometimes."

"He'll have to find somewhere else," Howard replied, unconcerned. Tony opened his mouth to argue, but cut himself off when Howard stood up and strode towards the living room, abandoning his plate. "I need to make a call. Goodnight, everyone."

Tony sprang to his feet, unable to completely contain his fury, and took off towards the opposite hallway without a glance back at his mother, who was left sitting alone in the dining room, staring at the seats where her husband and son had been moments ago. Halfway to his bedroom, he ran into Jarvis where he was vacuuming the hallway.

"What seems to be the problem, sir?" Jarvis asked, noting the anger radiating from Tony easily. He turned the vacuum off and leaned it against the wall. Tony tried to sidestep him, but Jarvis moved to block his escape. Tony grumbled lowly and crossed his arms like a petulant child. Jarvis felt a pang of sympathy in his chest. It was always a difficult transition when Howard and Maria returned. "What happened?"

"They think they can just come in here and make all these new rules?" Tony demanded, waving his phone in front of Jarvis's face. "They're only parents when it's fucking convenient for them, and it's not…it sucks, Jarvis. They don't even know me, they don't know anything about my life right now because they haven't been here for TEN FUCKING YEARS. And, on top of all this shit, they won't let Bruce stay here during the week. Where the fuck is he supposed to go if something happens? What if that sonofabitch kicks him out again and he can't find anywhere to go?"

"Sir, I'm sure they just want what's best for you," Jarvis said softly. "I know…I understand it's hard to believe, but they love you. They're just trying."

Tony huffed in disbelief and crossed his arms, but managed to calm down enough to steady his breathing. He felt for his inhaler where he'd kept it tucked into his pocket just in case.

"And if Mr. Banner needs a place to stay," Jarvis added softly, glancing around the hallway. "I don't see why he can't slip into one of the extra rooms without either of us noticing. The house is quite large, it would be understandable if we just…didn't notice."

Tony's lips curled into a reluctant smile, and Jarvis couldn't help but grin back. "I guess you're right. It would be easy to miss." He rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, "Thanks, Jarvis."

"Whatever for, sir?" Jarvis cocked an eyebrow and stepped aside to let Tony pass by him and disappear into his bedroom, his shoulders back and his head held higher than before.

* * *

SATURDAY

_"Have you contacted your brother lately?" Coulson asked, looking at Clint with what could pass as sympathy._

_Clint sneered at Coulson and pressed his lips into a disgruntled frown. "No. I haven't talked to him since…since before."_

_Coulson hummed softly and referenced the papers in front of him again. "It says here that he's been having a problem with alcohol for about a year now." Coulson lifted his gaze from the folder to fix Clint with a pitying look. "Did you know about his addiction?"_

_Clint shrugged and rubbed his hand across his mouth, clearly agitated. He glanced up at the clock and replied stiffly, "My brother is none of your business."_

_"I'll record that as a 'yes'," Coulson noted dryly, making a mark in the margins of one of the pages of Clint's file. _

_Clint rolled his eyes and snapped irritably, "Yeah, okay, I knew. Happy now?"_

Clint shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, glancing up at the clock over the stove. He had less than an hour to intercept Natasha before she had to go to rehearsal and then went out on a date with that douchebag of a boyfriend her parents had chosen for her.

His foster father emerged from his bedroom and wandered into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was already showered and dressed in beat up jeans and a plain gray t-shirt. He dropped into the seat across from Clint and picked up the box of cereal to pour himself a bowl. He glanced up at Clint and asked gruffly, "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine," Clint replied, picking up his bowl and bringing it to the sink to rinse it out. "How about you?"

"I thought I heard something last night," Buck sniffed, pouring some milk into his bowl. Clint froze for a moment, terrified that despite their best efforts to meticulously cover it up, Buck had figured out that Barney had been drinking the night before. He relaxed when Buck added, "But it must have just been one of you closing the bathroom door. Is your brother up?"

Clint cleared his throat and shook his head. "No. He, uh, he wasn't feeling so good last night."

Buck frowned. "That's too bad. I was hoping he could come out to the job site and help me out today. What about you?"

Clint shrugged. He didn't mind going out to the site with Buck; he liked it, even. They didn't get to spend much time together where Clint wasn't lying his ass off for his brother. However, he was already set on trying to derail Natasha's plans for the day. He turned off the sink and said, "I was actually going to head over and hang out with Nat for a little while."

"Oh," Buck nodded. "Okay, then. That's fine. Seems like she hasn't been around here in a while."

"She's really busy with dance lately," Clint agreed, opening the dishwasher and placing his bowl in the top rack. "I haven't gotten to see her much."

Clint closed the dishwasher and crossed the room to retrieve his jacket from the coat hooks nailed up next to the kitchen door. Buck gave him a small wave, distracted by the newspaper Clint had brought in and left folded on the table for him. "Have fun, kid."

Clint nodded and pushed open the side door. He stepped out onto the stoop and was about to let the door close behind him when Buck's voice made him pause. "Are you sure your brother's just sick? How late was he out last night?"

Clint's throat felt suddenly dry and tight. He swallowed hard and replied, keeping his voice as calm and casual as possible, "Yeah, I'm sure he's just sick. He got home right after you went to bed, around 9:30. I think he just ate something bad the other night at the clam shack."

It was a weak excuse, and he hope desperately that Buck would accept it and stop asking him questions. His heart pounded in his chest as the pause grew longer and increasingly tense before Buck sighed and said softly, "Alright. I'll check on him later. Bye, Clint."

* * *

Clint hauled himself up the trellis screwed to the side of Natasha's house and followed the familiar path to her window. When he was close enough, he tapped on the glass three times, paused, and then followed it up with another two knocks.

He heard muffled cursing and a few moments later the shade was pulled up and Natasha stood in her window, dressed in loose sweatpants and a t-shirt with her dance bag on her shoulder. She tried to frown at him disapprovingly, but Clint could see the small upturn of the corner of her lips. She unlatched her window and pushed it open to let Clint inside. He ducked under the window and rolled into her room, landing in a heap on the shag carpet.

"What are you doing here?" Natasha asked, poking him in the side with her toe. "I have to leave in fifteen minutes."

"That's why I'm here," Clint rolled onto he balls of his feet and bounced up, grinning widely. He dropped down onto the edge of Natasha's bed and smiled at her, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "I was hoping you would ditch rehearsal and meet the rest of us for lunch."

"You know I can't do that," Natasha couldn't help but smile wistfully. "I have to meet Michael after rehearsal for dinner."

"But he's so boring," Clint whined, flopping onto his back and stretching out over her bed, yawning widely. "At least with Tony you're guaranteed an explosion at some point. And if Steve shows maybe him and Tony will get into another fight where you're forced to pry them apart to keep them from killing each other." Clint batted his eyes at her with exaggerated charm. "Maybe Thor will break something valuable again and we'll have to make a run for it."

"You make it sound so tempting," Natasha commented dryly. She hefted her bag up higher on her shoulder. Clint could see her battling with herself, torn between the ingrained need to conform to her family's expectations of her and the more tempting prospect of breaking their rules. In the end, her guilt over disobeying her aunt and uncle won out. "I can't. My parents pay for these lessons, the least I can do is go to them. And Michael isn't that bad."

Clint snorted derisively. "He wears pleated khakis by choice, Nat. That's your first warning sign."

"You've been spending too much time with Tony," Natasha bit back a smile. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table and straightened up, letting out a low sigh. "I really do have to go. Maybe tomorrow I can escape for a few hours."

Clint rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from her bed. "Fine. Let me know if you can pencil us into your—"

Clint's foot caught on the edge of her throw rug and he toppled forward, flailing out to catch himself before he could fall. Strong hands wrapped around his arms and supported him until he managed to find his footing again. He smiled breathlessly down at Natasha, red creep into his cheeks when he realized how close they were. Her hands had moved to his chest to support him and he was gripping her waist tightly to steady himself. He froze and took a hurried step back, pulling his hands away quickly. He smiled sheepishly, trying to will the blush from his cheeks. "I…sorry. I always forget about that damn rug." He rubbed the back of his neck and grinned, trying to laugh it off, but Natasha wasn't smiling. She was watching him with a blank, evaluating look on her face, her mouth set in a thin line. He shrugged and sidestepped her to make for the window. "So let me know about tomorrow, alright?"

Natasha nodded shortly, not turning to look at Clint as he climbed out of the window. Her hair hung in a curtain of thick red curls in front of her face, obscuring her expression from him.

He climbed down the trellis and dropped to the ground below her window. He dusted his hands off on his jeans and glanced up just in time to see Natasha closing the window. She hesitated for a moment before closing the shade, and for a second, Clint thought that she'd changed her mind.

His stomach sank when the shade was pulled down and the shadow of her body disappeared from behind the thin white canvas.

* * *

**So there it is! I think in the next chapter or so shit starts to go down, so hang on! **

**Please review if you have a second! I love to hear what you think:)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Alright, so this one is a long one, I think. Thanks for all the feedback so far, I really like to hear that people are interested (it keeps me inspired), and I really appreciate the time you guys take to do it. It makes my day to hear that people like this, so thanks:)**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: mentions of child abuse, language, hints of slash, sexual harassment, alcoholism, allusions to an eating disorder and depression, references to past self harm**

**Wow. When I write it all out it sounds like a depressing chapter. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_"Did you ever notice Bruce's bruises?" Coulson asked, regarding Steve over the top of his notepad._

_Steve considered Coulson a moment before replying hesitantly, "I…Bruce has always had some problems with other guys roughing him up."_

_"Why?" Coulson asked bluntly. Steve shrugged and looked up at him, clearly confused. "Because he's smart? Because he's smaller than them?"_

_"I guess," Steve agreed softly, something dark flickering across his expression._

_Coulson pressed further. "You've seen him being harassed?"_

_Steve nodded stiffly, his jaw set in a hard line._

_"Have you tried to stop them?" Coulson asked._

_"Of course I have," Steve muttered, clenching his fingers into tight fists in his lap. "He never wanted me to, and I know he can take care of himself, but I couldn't just stand there and watch him get hurt."_

_"So you feel protective of him?" Coulson asked mildly._

_Steve nodded. _

_"Protective enough to hide something from the police if it meant keeping him safe?" Coulson cocked an eyebrow inquiringly, his voice deceptively light and calm._

_Steve's expression didn't shift as he replied. "Very few things are more important to me than his safety."_

Steve stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, focusing intently on the tendrils of hair falling from Natasha's bun. He'd been working on her hair for fifteen minutes and he still couldn't get it to look right. Something was off, and it was driving him crazy. The person in the picture didn't look like her. If someone who didn't know her looked at the picture, they wouldn't see a strong, talented, patient dancer who didn't put up with any disrespect, had a killer dry sense of humor, and worked desperately hard to juggle everything she had going on. In the drawing, she looked too prim and proper and complacent, and just not Natasha.

"Is that really what my hair looks like?"

Steve glanced up at the sound of Bruce's voice and saw the smaller man standing next to the booth, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the sketch. The corner of his lips was quirked into a small, shy smile, and his hand rested on the table inches away from Steve's sketchpad. His other hand stole to his hair to rake the thick, dark curls out of his eyes.

Steve scootched over so Bruce could slide into the booth next to him, tugging his sketchpad with him. Bruce couldn't completely hide his wince as carefully slid onto the red vinyl, and his arm moved to wrap around his middle, as if his ribs were causing him pain. Steve's jaw tightened and he tapped his pencil against the tabletop, scrutinizing Bruce more closely to figure out what was wrong.

On closer inspection, he noticed the slightly raised skin across Bruce's cheek and the small bump on his bottom lip. He hesitantly reached out and gripped Bruce's chin gently, tilting his face up to get a better look at the expertly concealed damage without Bruce's hair obscuring most of his features. Bruce's eyes flickered over Steve's face searchingly. Steve's mouth twisted into a frown when he managed to find the spots where Bruce's skin was a fraction of a shade darker under the carefully applied concealer. Steve wasn't sure if he was more pissed off about how good Bruce was at hiding his bruises, or about how Bruce felt like he had to hide them at all.

"What was it this time?" Steve asked quietly, forcing his voice to remain calm and controlled.

Bruce ducked his head, pulling out of Steve's grip, and shrugged, reaching for Steve's sketchpad. With the exception of Bucky and Natasha, Bruce was the only person allowed to flip through his sketchbook without permission. Bruce turned a couple pages, examining a sketch of Natasha on the front steps of the school, Tony asleep at his desk in Chemistry, and Thor on the bench at the last football game Steve had been able to see. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and shrugged, unconcerned. "I was late. He had a rough day."

"So he took it out on you," Steve said softly. Bruce's calloused fingers froze where they were paging through the sketchbook for a fraction of a second before continuing to turn the pages. "It's happening a lot more frequently lately."

Bruce chewed at his bottom lip, tearing off pieces of skin. He shrugged again, and turned another page. He froze for a moment and stared at the sketch blankly. It was one Steve had done of him a couple weeks ago, when they'd been at Thor's game. Thor had scored and everyone had jumped to their feet. Tony had yanked Bruce up with him, and Bruce clearly hadn't been expecting it. He had stumbled forward, surprised, and would have toppled onto the person in front of him if Steve hadn't managed to get a grip on his waist to keep him upright. For a split second, Bruce had smiled; not his practiced, carefully guarded of-course-I'm-fine smile, but a warm, lopsided, genuine grin that Steve could count on one hand how many times he'd seen. Steve had committed that smile to memory and filed it away for later that night when he could get his hands on his sketchbook.

Bruce's fingers ran over the dull lines of the pencil as he gazed down at the picture and bit his lip. He seemed perplexed by the drawing, as if he couldn't reconcile this smiling, relaxed person Steve had drawn with how he saw himself. He shook his head and muttered apologetically, "I…I don't…I don't look like that."

"What? Happy?" Steve asked him, tilting his head and examining the drawing closely. Bruce shrugged, his shoulders brushing Steve's. Steve lifted his gaze from the page and found his face just inches away from Bruce's. Bruce cocked an eyebrow so it disappeared into the mess of wild curls that flopped over his forehead. Steve fought to urge to reach out and brush them out of Bruce's dark brown eyes, not wanting to scare Bruce off with too much physical contact. He pressed his lips together and bumped Bruce's knee with his own under the table. "Then I guess I'll have to work on that."

Bruce's gaze flickered up from the table to meet Steve's for a few seconds, his dark eyes temporarily betraying his feelings of confusion and hesitant curiosity. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Tony's voice calling loudly from across the diner, "Well, isn't this adorable? I almost hate to interrupt."

Bruce rolled his eyes and moved closer to Steve to make room for Tony at the end of their booth. Tony, however, didn't sit down; he froze at the end of the table, staring at Bruce's cheek where the makeup covered the fresh cuts, clearly seeing the same thing Steve had. His hand clenched into a fist at his side and he gritted his teeth together angrily. "That fucking bastard."

"Sit down, Tony," Bruce snapped, yanking Tony down with a grip around his wrist. "People are staring."

"People are staring because your face is totally fucked up," Tony snorted indignantly, pulling his arm away from Bruce to throw his hands exasperatedly in the air.

Bruce glanced at his reflection in the chrome napkin holder and said slowly, "It's not that bad."

Tony mouthed the words 'not that bad' in disbelief, gaping at his best friend. He shook his head and said firmly, "You're staying with me tonight."

"No," Bruce said mildly, closing Steve's sketchbook.

Tony pouted at him, but didn't press. As much as he couldn't stand Tony sometimes, Steve couldn't begrudge him the fact that Bruce was comfortable with standing up to him and appreciate that Tony didn't bully him into doing whatever he wanted the same way he would with anybody else.

"Whatever, princess," Tony muttered, disgruntled. He snatched a menu from the rack in the center of the table and flipped it open. "What do you want?"

"I'm not hungry," Bruce said, and that launched them into their age-old argument about how Bruce had to eat, but he wasn't hungry, but he was wasting away, and "don't-tell-me-how-I-feel-Tony", and "stop-being-so-damn-stubborn-Bruce-it's-not-like-I-can't-afford-it".

Steve was only half-listening as he unfolded his own menu and scanned the list of sandwiches while he waited for them to stop arguing and for Thor and Clint to arrive.

* * *

_"Bruce has bruises a lot?" Coulson asked, leaning back in his chair._

_Thor considered the question for a moment before he shrugged and nodded slowly. "I suppose."_

_"You suppose?" Coulson repeated condescendingly. "It's a yes or no question."_

_"Yes," Thor replied through gritted teeth, his hands curling into fists in his lap. "He does. But this is his father you are implying, and I don't believe—"_

_Coulson raised an eyebrow skeptically, and asked, "You think he wouldn't hurt him just because they're related?" When Thor didn't reply and instead glared staunchly at the wall, Coulson continued incredulously, "People are hurt by their family members all the time."_

_"I know," Thor replied through gritted teeth, ducking his head so his blonde mane hid his eyes from view._

Thor toweled off his hair, scrubbing his fingers hard against his scalp to try to shake loose as much moisture as possible. He straightened up and wrapped the towel around his waist without looking at himself in the mirror, afraid of what he'd see. He'd eaten a sandwich that day the diner with the others, and he could practically feel himself getting heavier, regaining the weight he tried desperately to run off. He resolved not to eat for the rest of the night, knowing in the back of his mind that he wouldn't hold himself to that promise. He would start to feel low, and then he would eat, and then he would hate himself even more for his lack of control.

Thor pushed open the bathroom door, letting the steam billow around his ankles into the hallway. He padded across the thick carpet towards his bedroom, but froze when a thin, cold hand wrapped around his bicep and shoved him roughly so he overbalanced and fell against the wall. He clutched his towel around him, vaguely grateful it hadn't fallen off of him completely.

Loki's sharp fingernails dug into his stomach, pushing at the thin layer of softness wrapping around Thor's waist. "Letting yourself go a little, aren't you?"

Thor blushed, feeling the red flesh spreading across his shoulders and rising up his neck. "Cease your criticisms, Loki, I cannot—"

"Criticisms?" Loki raised perfectly curved eyebrow at his brother, gazing down at him coldly. "They are merely facts, Thor. It seems you've been getting a little lax about your training since we've come here."

"I have had a lot on my mind," Thor replied through gritted teeth. He tried to duck around Loki, but his brother simply pressed him further into the wall, refusing to let him escape so easily. He tried again, demanding lowly, "Loki, let me go."

"I don't think it's wise to order your future king around," Loki sneered, digging his fingernails into Thor's chest until Thor could feel them drawing blood. He gritted his teeth and bared it, unwilling to fight back. Loki was his baby brother. He could never hurt him, no matter what Loki may say to him.

Thor swallowed hard and managed to choke out, "You are not next in line for the throne, brother."

"Not yet," Loki agreed, watching the blood bubble up around his fingernails with faint interest. "But I'm sure it won't be long before Father changes that."

"He wouldn't," Thor argued, his voice gaining strength. He shoved Loki away from him angrily and glared up at his younger brother, frowning when Loki simply smiled at him condescendingly. "I have been preparing and training for this since I was born. He will not take that away from me simply because I…because there were some setbacks."

"Setbacks?" Loki repeated softly, mockingly, his dark eyes glittering with anger and disgust. "You and I seem to recall the day we fled very differently." Thor ducked his head, allowing his damp blonde locks to obscure his face, and didn't speak. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm fairly certain you had a breakdown and almost killed a servant because you thought he was Endrik. I can't say that that is a normal, healthy reaction."

"I was lost in my grief," Thor said softly, a blush of shame creeping up his cheeks at the memory. "I was…confused…"

"It's been two years, brother," Loki hissed, stepping closer to crowd Thor against the wall again, but made no move to touch him. "And you still seem horribly, irrevocably lost in your grief. It's made you unstable, and it is only a matter of time before Father recognizes it."

Thor's gaze hardened and he snapped, "I am not unstable." The rest of Loki's word sunk in, about him being irrevocably lost in his own grief, and his heart rate increased slightly with panic. He desperately hoped he would not feel this weight on his chest for the rest of his life. He had thus far learned to live with it, but the prospect of living his entire life with this heavy feeling in his chest was daunting.

"Thor, Loki!" their father's voice boomed up the stairs, breaking the tense silence between them. Loki stepped away from Thor, eyeing him with derision. "Dinner!"

Loki turned on his heel and started for the stairs, not bothering to look back and see if Thor was following. Thor cleared his throat and called down the stairs, trying to keep his voice as casual sounding as possible, "I'll be down in a moment."

He ducked into his room and pulled a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from his drawers. He looked down at himself, hating the way his shirt hugged his frame so closely, showing off all of his imperfections. He picked up his sweatshirt from the floor next to his bed and pulled it on. He felt slightly better wearing the baggy sweatshirt that hid his frame, and he used the sleeves to wipe his eyes. He didn't have time to get emotional then, nor did he wish to. He wanted to stop feeling altogether, if feeling the way he did was what feeling meant.

* * *

_Coulson sucked in a deep breath and leaned forward on the desk. "You dropped him off the night it happened, correct?"_

_Steve nodded shortly, eyeing Coulson warily and crossing his arms over his chest more tightly. "Yeah, I gave him a lift home from the diner downtown. He lives two streets over, so it's no big deal."_

_"How was he acting?" Coulson asked softly, tapping his pen against his chin and fixing Steve with a serious, inquiring expression._

_Steve shrugged, his eyes flickering to different spots in the room, and admitted, "I…a little quiet, I guess, but sometimes he gets like that. I asked him if he wanted to stay at my place for the night, and he said he had to get home."_

_"So, fairly normal," Coulson summarized, jotting down a few notes in the margins of his notepad._

_Inexplicably, Steve broke out into a small, exasperated smile. "He seemed fine."_

Steve glanced at Bruce across the center console, slightly concerned. Usually it was fairly easy to get Bruce to talk if he brought up classes, or science, or any of the science fiction things he and Tony enjoyed so much, but Bruce had barely spoken a word since they'd left the diner. Bruce hadn't eaten much either, simply picked his food over until it looked like he'd eaten something. Thor, too, had been unusually quiet, barely managing to smile at Clint when his friend tried to joke around with him.

Steve mulled it over apprehensively. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong lately. Tony was carrying his inhaler again, Natasha's hatred and resentment towards her parents grew each day, Clint had been acting weird whenever someone mentioned his brother, Thor was barely eating, and Bruce was quietly falling apart. Steve had a stomach dropping feeling that they were all hurtling towards a cliff with nothing to stop them from going over the edge.

Bruce shifted in the passenger's seat and picked up something from the floor. Steve recognized it as one of the pamphlets for one of the art schools that Erskine had given him. It must have fallen off the stack when he'd brought them home. Bruce paged through it curiously for a few moments before asking, "You want to go to art school?"

Steve shrugged and tried to brush the question off casually, his chest tightening. "Not really. Erskine gave me some brochures for a couple schools, but it's unrealistic."

"Why not?" Bruce asked, looking up at Steve from the pamphlet. Steve moved his eyes from the road to meet Bruce's inquisitive gaze for a split second.

He shrugged and tore his eyes from Bruce's concerned, calculating gaze, unable to hold it for long. It amazed him sometimes, how Bruce could look at him with so much concern when the left side of his face was one painful bruise under a layer of makeup. "I just…there are so many people who are better than I am. You guys think my stuff's good, but you have nothing to compare it to. I'm mediocre."

Bruce raised an eyebrow and batted Steve's arm with the booklet lightly. "I don't know if we're looking at the same sketch book, but you're pretty damn talented. You see the shadows and shades in scenes that I could never notice. You spent two years just working on learning the proportions of the human body and you've gotten to be so good at it. The…the expression in the faces of the people you draw…I mean, I can see Bucky in them. It's amazing."

Steve tensed at the mention of Bucky and shook his head. "You don't…Thanks for the support, but it's unrealistic. I'll have to support a family someday…"

"Please," Bruce snorted, his lips curving into a small smile. "I'll give you Tony's credit card number; you'll be set for life." Steve pursed his lips and smiled reluctantly. Bruce's grin widened ever so slightly when he saw the smile tug at Steve's lips. "I get that you're concerned about your future, but you should be concerned about being happy, too." He paused for a moment, clearing having some trouble with putting his thoughts into words. Steve remained quiet, allowing him to finish; he knew that sometimes it took Bruce a minute to figure out what he wanted to say, especially when it was something emotional that he wasn't familiar with. "You shouldn't…if you could do anything in the world, would that be it?"

Steve opened his mouth to refute it, but paused. He shrugged and replied honestly, "I…yes. If I could…I'd want to illustrate. Books, book covers, comic books, whatever." Steve cut himself off, feeling a blush rising in his cheeks. He'd never really told anyone about what he wanted to do specifically, with the exception of Bucky.

Bruce reached out and gripped Steve's knee for a brief moment. "You shouldn't be ashamed of going after what you want."

Steve chewed on his bottom lip, dropping one hand from the wheel and brushing his fingers over Bruce's as Bruce pulled his hand away. Bruce started slightly, surprised, and folded his hands in his lap, tangling his fingers together. Steve gripped the steering wheel again and cleared his throat. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Bruce asked.

"What do you want?" Steve clarified.

Bruce's eyebrows drew together as he considered Steve's question, and Steve couldn't help but wonder if anyone had ever asked Bruce that before. "Well, I…I want to go to college. I've always thought about…always considered studying for a PhD in nuclear physics. I mean, I've always kind of been interested in radiation…"

"Doctor Banner?" Steve grinned. He turned onto Bruce's street. "It has a nice ring to it."

"You think?" Bruce smiled faintly, lifting his gaze from his hands to Steve. "I mean, either that or maybe something medical…I don't really know yet. Either way, I guess…"

"Medical?" Steve repeated. He'd learned that Bruce was interested in almost every faucet of science, art, and history that he could get his hands on. He picked a topic and he devoured every book he could find on the subject, learned as much as he could, and usually managed to get Tony at least mildly interested. He loved to learn, he was hungry for knowledge and information, and he had a remarkable memory for it all. Steve was almost surprised that he'd managed to narrow down what field he wanted to go into. "I didn't know you were seriously interested in that."

Bruce shrugged. "I…I'd like to help people. Maybe. I'd at least like to get some basic training so I can help out at the clinic or something."

"In all your free time?" Steve teased him, raising his eyebrows. "When you're not too busy developing the future nuclear energy source for the world?"

Bruce made a small, amused sound in the back of his throat and shook his head, his dark eyes bright with laughter. "Maybe I'll even pencil in some time to go to some of your book signings."

Steve pulled over to the side of the road to park, allowing himself a moment to grin and believe Bruce for a few seconds. "Gee, thanks. Just for that, you can walk the rest of the way home."

"And here I thought you were a gentleman," Bruce said dryly, pushing open his door and dropping to the ground. He always had Steve drop him off six houses down from his, in an effort to appease his father. Steve had always had the feeling Brian Banner didn't like him spending time with Bruce for some reason, and felt vaguely guilty when he thought of him taking it out on Bruce.

"Hey," he called before Bruce could shut the door. Bruce paused turned to look back at Steve, forced to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Steve rubbed his hand across his mouth nervously and said, "I…Are you going to be alright? I know you told Tony no, but if you need somewhere to stay…"

"I'll be fine," Bruce brushed off his concern with a convincing smile and stepped away from the truck. "He just had a rough night last night. It doesn't happen often." He gripped the edge of the door. "Thanks for the ride, Steve. See you around."

Bruce slammed the door shut and started towards his house, pulling his jacket tightly around his slim frame and ducking his head against the wind.

* * *

_"Obadiah Stane has been around in the company for how long?" Coulson asked, regarding Tony over the top of his folder._

_Tony shrugged and waved a hand vaguely in the air. "Since I can remember, I dunno."_

_"You were close?" Coulson asked quietly._

_Tony pursed his lips, considering, but Coulson could see the answer written across his face clear as day. _

Tony pulled the door shut behind him and kicked off his boots, the warm air of the foyer cocooning around him immediately. He rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers to warm them up. He dug one hand into his pocket and checked his phone, still hoping that Bruce would call and tell him to come pick him up. He knew Bruce hated it when he "mothered" him, but he couldn't help himself; it's not as if Bruce's mother did it enough. Honestly, Tony was sometimes taken aback by the fierce protectiveness he had over Bruce. He'd experienced it rarely; for his ex-girlfriend Pepper (who he was still close with), for example, or his best friend Rhodey (who had left for military school three years ago).

There were no missed calls from Bruce, but seven from his father. Considering his father hadn't called him seven times in the past seven years combined, Tony couldn't help but feel slightly concerned. He wasn't concerned enough to call back. He stuck his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and headed for the stairs, his mind already on the robotic arm he was building in his workshop.

"Anthony Stark."

Tony paused outside his father's office as he passed when his name was called. He peered around the half open door and poked his head into the office. "Yeah?"

Howard Stark was sitting behind his desk, his hands folded in front of him and dressed in one of his best business suits. Tony had never understood why his father wore a suit and tie even at home, but he'd never had the balls to bring it up. Obadiah Stane sat in the chair opposite Howard. When Tony pushed open the door, Obie beamed at him warmly. "Tony! I haven't seen you in a while. You must have grown a foot since last month."

"Hey, Obie," Tony greeted him warmly, smiling despite himself. While he'd been initially wary, he grown to like the older man. Obie had taken to showing up a few times a month when his dad was gone to check in on him, usually bringing dinner and hanging around long enough to see whatever Tony was working on at the time. Tony couldn't say his disliked the attention. "I thought we talked about not mentioning my height. Low self-esteem, remember?"

"I think that's the last thing we have to worry about," Obie chuckled softly, grinning at him with amusement.

Howard huffed derisively and cut in sharply, "I didn't call you in here to socialize, Tony."

"What did you call me in here for, then?" Tony asked. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. "It would be nice if we could get to it soon. I have some important stuff to work on, not that this isn't—"

"I called you ten times," Howard said through gritted teeth, his hands balling into fists on his desktop. "Your mother and I were worried sick. We went to check on you this morning and you weren't there."

"I went out to lunch with my friends," Tony shrugged, unconcerned. "I just got home. I didn't think I'd have to run it by you."

"According to the rules I gave you, you are supposed to ask your mother or I before you go out, so we know where you are," Howard snapped irritably, reaching for his phone. "I'll call your mother and tell her I've found you. Go up to your room."

"Seriously?" Tony raised his eyebrows at Howard, amused. "You're sending me to my room? I'm seventeen, not seven."

"I don't have time for this right now," Howard muttered irritably, dropping his phone back onto his desk and picking up one of the folders in front of him. "Just get out."

Tony gritted his teeth, tempted to snap back a stinging retort, but bit it back before it could escape his lips at a warning look from Obie. He was probably right; it wasn't worth it.

Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Tony threw himself onto his bed and curled up on his side, clutching his phone to his chest. His eyes felt oddly dry and his throat felt tight. He grabbed his pillow and pulled it to his chest, curling himself into a ball around it protectively and squishing his face against the fabric.

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. His dad had never batted an eye when he'd gotten a full scholarship to high school, when he scored a genius level IQ on his IQ test, when colleges had started knocking on their door the day he turned fifteen. He had never once told Tony he was proud of him; Tony couldn't remember the last time his dad had told him he loved him. He'd only told Tony that he needed to find more respectable friends (like Steve Rogers), and behave like an angel in class (like Steve Rogers). And now Howard just waltzed back into his life and expected him to welcome him with open arms; expected him to follow rules set by a man who had no understanding whatsoever of the circumstances of Tony's life because he hadn't been there for almost ten years? Tony's stomach rolled with rage and his blood boiled with anger and he clenched the sheets on his bed in tight, sweaty fists.

His tears soaked into the pillowcase, leaving a small damp patch on the fabric.

He allowed himself to stay like that for exactly two minutes before he pushed himself into a sitting position and ran his hands over his eyes, wiping away any moisture remaining there. He cleared his throat and stood up, wiping his hand under his nose and forcing himself to push his feelings of anger and confusion and some unidentifiable disappointment back into the box where they belonged in the back of his mind.

He had a robot to build, and Howard Stark wasn't going to ruin that for him.

* * *

_"Your boyfriend was here earlier looking for you," Coulson said, watching Natasha closely for a reaction._

_Natasha's eyebrow twitched, but otherwise she gave nothing away. "He's not my boyfriend."_

_"He seems to think he is," Coulson titled his head curiously._

_Natasha shrugged, forcing herself to remain impassive and calm. "He was. It didn't work out."_

"I had a great time tonight," Natasha lied, smiling as genuinely as she could manage. "Thanks."

"I did, too," Michael reached out and gripped her hands, pulling her towards him. She reluctantly allowed him to, not wanting to seem completely rude. He reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I…Natasha, I think this is going really well."

Natasha simply smiled politely, unable to answer truthfully without shattering her aunt's hopes for her future.

He leaned forward and kissed her. She tilted her head to the side slightly, trying to find a way to make them fit together more comfortably, but she'd yet to discover a way that didn't feel awkward and wrong. His lips pressed against her insistently, which automatically made her tense. She didn't like that he tried to control her, to dominate her when they kissed. She hated how he made her feel like she was weaker than him.

She started in surprise when his hands slid below her waist. She shoved Michael away and glared at him, uncomfortable and shocked. He'd never even tried to make a move on her before, and she would never have expected him to try anything. "Don't touch me."

"I'm sorry," Michael said, red creeping into his cheeks. "I just thought…we've been together for a couple months now. I didn't realize…"

"I would just prefer it if you kept your hands where they belong," Natasha said tersely, reaching out to open the front door and escape into her house. "To yourself."

"Natasha, wait," Michael caught her around the wrist and held her back, keeping her from slipping inside. She reluctantly stepped back onto the front stoop, pulling her arm away from him and frowning at him disapprovingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you weren't okay with it. Don't get mad at me."

"I'm not," Natasha muttered, ducking her head and tucking a lock of fiery red hair behind her ear. She scuffed the bottom of her shoe against the ground, feeling small and uncomfortable and not at all happy. "I just…I'm sorry. I'm just…not ready to move that fast."

Michael shrugged and smiled at her. "Of course. I understand. I guess we have plenty of time for that, right?"

Natasha forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes and nodded in affirmation. "Right."

Her aunt and uncle were sitting on the couch when she came inside, watching the door expectantly. Natasha kicked off her shoes and pointed her feet in an effort to get rid of the cramps and pains from wearing high heels all night.

"How was your date?" Alyona perked up at Natasha's entrance and immediately began her usual barrage of questions.

Natasha shrugged and crossed the living room quickly, determined to make it upstairs as soon as possible. "It was fine."

"Wait a moment, Natalia," Alyona called. Natasha froze with her right foot on the first step and her hand on the bottom of the railing, and reluctantly turned around to face her parents.

"Yes?" she forced her voice to sound pleasant and calm, despite her irritation.

"Come sit down for a second," Alyona motioned to the armchair across from the couch, smiling in way that made Natasha hesitate. Nonetheless, she stepped down from the stairs and padded over to the armchair. Alyona waited until she had settled in to continue. "I think it's important that we talk about this as a family. You and Michael seem to be getting very serious."

"He's…he's nice," Natasha said diplomatically.

Alyona beamed at her and covered her hand with her mouth, his eyes suddenly shining with tears. "I'm so glad to hear you say that. Your eighteenth birthday is coming up, and it's about time you seriously started thinking about marriage."

"Marriage?" Natasha repeated incredulously, almost choking on the word. She was tired and sick of being prim and proper, and she was not in the mood for that discussion. "I'm seventeen. Why should I be thinking about marriage? I'm leaving for college next year."

"But you're not going far," Alyona pointed out, looking to her husband for support. He grunted noncommittally, as usual, not wanting to get involved. "Only to the school of dance across town, correct? Michael will only be down the street at the business school. Don't you want to settle down, get married, have children?"

Natasha automatically began to nod, but stopped herself. She paused for a moment, thinking about what her aunt's future would mean for her; she would marry Michael, attend college for dance while he earned his business degree, move in with him, have kids, dance again once the kids were born and old enough to go to daycare. She would send the kids to school every morning, reach a few classes, come home to make dinner, help with homework, and tuck the kids into bed, only to deal with Michael as well. The thought of it made her stomach turn and her chest hurt.

She dug her fingernails into her palms and shook her head shortly, muttering, "No. No, I don't want that. I don't want to dance, I don't want to get married yet, and I don't want kids. I don't want to spend the rest of my life with Michael, and I don't want to be a housewife."

Alyona blinked at her, perplexed by her outburst. Natasha had never outright spoken up against her aunt's plans, and she was slightly put off by it. "What do you mean?"

Natasha sighed and reached up to take her hair out of its carefully arranged bun, allowing her thick curls to fall around her face. She stretched the elastic between her fingers, unable to look up at her aunt and uncle.

"I don't like to dance," she admitted softly, bracing herself for Alyona's reaction. She pressed on before her aunt could interrupt, afraid that if she stopped then, she would never get the words out. "I used to love it, but now it's taking over my entire life and I hate it, I dread it. I don't want to go to school for it, and I certainly don't want to be married to Michael."

Alyona gaped at Natasha in disbelief, turning to her husband as if she wanted him to confirm what she'd just heard. Dmitri merely glanced up at Natasha for a moment, both understanding and some modicum of pride in his eyes. She had suspect that he'd noticed her growing resentment towards dance and Michael, but he had yet to address it directly. She suspected he never would. He was too afraid of upsetting his wife to speak out against her.

"You're a woman now," Alyona argued, a desperate edge to her voice. "You should be preparing to be married. You'll need a man to support you. How can you expect to advance in your dance career and run a household without a man to help take care of you?"

"I plan on being able to take care of myself," Natasha replied firmly. "I don't want to dance anymore. I haven't for a long time."

Alyona shook her head and bit her lip, obviously upset. "Don't say that. You're probably just tired. Your mother would be so disappointed if she was here to hear you talk like that."

Natasha balked at the mention of her mother; she hated when Alyona used her mother's career as a ballerina to guilt her. Natasha had been hearing that for as long as she could remember; your mother would be so proud, she always wanted you to follow in her footsteps, you inherited her natural talent… At first, she had been proud, but as time progressed, she realized more and more that she didn't want to dance for the rest of her life. She didn't want to dance at all anymore.

"She died so you could be saved, Natalia," Alyona insisted, tears gathering in her eyes again. Natasha's stomach turned; she knew where this was going. Despite that, she felt her defenses weakening. "She dragged herself out of that burning building to get you to safety. She always told me that she was so proud that she had such a beautiful daughter to teach to dance, to carry on our family's legacy…She put so much faith in you, and she had so much hope for your future…We just want what's best for you. We don't want your talent wasted because of some…some boy." Alyona's voice suddenly gained a steel edge. "This isn't about some boy, is it? One of those boys you're always with? I thought Madame Koshkov talked to you about them."

"You mean my friends?" Natasha asked, anger reigniting itself in her chest.

Alyona clicked her tongue and shook her head condescendingly. "Natalia, Natalia…I was always afraid this would happen. I'd hoped you'd make friends who were female as you got older, but it seems you never quite grew out of this…"

"My friends care about me," Natasha said lowly, digging her fingernails harder into her palm, drawing blood. "Their gender isn't of consequence."

"Don't be naïve," Alyona chastised her gently, her voice not losing its harsh edge. "Their gender isn't the only problem. It is unsightly for you to be seen with Stark, who is notorious for the amount of girls he's dated, and the son of the town drunk. I am surprised Stark and Banner allow them to see each other when they are on such opposite ends of the social spectrum, though they tangle rather closely on the moral spectrum. And, not to mention, your long term friendship with that ruffian—"

"Don't talk about my friends like that," Natasha snapped, her tone sharper than she'd intended it to be. "You don't know them, and it's not fair of you to judge them by their parents. And Clint is my best friend, he has been since before preschool. How is that so difficult for you to understand?"

"Do not talk back to me," Alyona rose from the couch, all traces of tears gone from her eyes, replaced by a hard defiance. "We pay for you to take dance; we have invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in this. This is all your mother ever wanted for you. We even found you a reliable, hardworking future husband. We've done everything for you, and this is how you repay us?" She pursed her lips and pointed at the stairs, turning her face away from her niece, as if she was overwhelmed by pain and disappointment. "Go to your room. We're all tired, I think. You'll regret ever saying these things in the morning."

Natasha rose to her feet gracefully and stomped up the stairs. She closed her bedroom door carefully behind her and paused for a moment, staring at the headboard of her bed. A plain white Styrofoam container was placed on the center of her pillow. She could make out Clint's handwriting on the piece of paper taped to the top that read, "Figured you'd want some real food after dinner with the Douche at whatever fancy place he dragged you this time. They were out of American cheese."

She could smell the food from the door, and recognized it immediately as a burger from the diner in town. She pressed her back against the door and slid to the floor, holding her jacket to her chest, torn between tears and laughter.

* * *

_"Did you ever talk to your brother about his problem?" Coulson asked bluntly, noting Clint's mild flinch at the mention of his brother._

_Clint shrugged and scratched the side of his nose. "I wouldn't call it talking."_

_Coulson's gaze lifted from the pages in front of him and he fixed Clint was a lightly amused gaze. "More like shouting matches?"_

_Clint almost smiled, but caught himself just in time and maintained his scowl. "I guess."_

Clint tapped his fingers on the table, watching the back door impatiently. He glanced at the clock on the stove again, and sighed when he saw the bright blue numbers read 11:45. If Barney wasn't home in fifteen minutes, Buck was going to get home before him and be furious that Barney had stayed out past his curfew. Clint wouldn't care if Barney was simply late (he'd stayed out past curfew enough times himself), but Clint had the sinking feeling his brother had been out partying and drinking again.

Clint was becoming increasingly concerned about Barney. He was a teenager, and it wasn't unusual for him to want to experiment with alcohol, but it was becoming a serious issue. He was gone every night on the weekends and most nights during the week, and when he did finally return home, he was staggeringly drunk.

There was a thud against the door, and the sound of hands scrabbling for the knob. Clint's shoulders tensed and he leaned forward on the table, expectantly watching the door creak open.

Barney stumbled inside and caught himself on the edge of the counter, mumbling under his breath and almost sinking to the floor. He hooked his foot on the door and managed to slam it shut. He turned and started to inch towards the hallway, gripping the counter for support, unable to support himself.

"Nice to see you got home safe," Clint spoke up suddenly.

Barney started and whirled around, noticing Clint was sitting at the table for the first time. He pressed his hand over his racing heart and gasped, sucking in a deep breath to get his quickening heartbeat back to normal. "God, Clint, you sc'red me."

"_I_ scared _you_?" Clint demanded incredulously, flattening his hands on the table in front of him and digging his nails into the wood. "You're home two and a half hours late, without a fucking phone call to let me know you were still alive. Don't complain that _I_ scared _you_."

"Aww, c'mon," Barney slurred, stumbling forward and catching himself on the table. Clint grimaced when the smell of alcohol enveloped him as his brother moved closer. "D'n't act all high 'n might wif me. Like you've n'ver gotten a little…little drunk and be'n…gotten home late…"

"Maybe once," Clint snapped, rising to his feet angrily. "Not every goddamn weekend. You can't keep doing this; you're not going to get away with it much longer, and you're going to hurt yourself. Stop being an idiot."

"Dn't take it out on me 'cause your girlfriend ditched you," Barney's upper lip curled into a sneer and rage ignited in Clint's chest, hot and sharp. "Maybe you should take up w'th that Banner kid, Ross says he looks like the best damn lay in school."

Clint grabbed the front of Barney's shirt and yanked him over the table until their faces were only inches apart. "She is not my girlfriend, she did not ditch me, and if I ever hear you talk about Bruce like that again, I'll punch your teeth in."

"I d'n't say it!" Barney held up his hands in a 'don't shoot' gesture, and tried to pull away from Clint. "Ross's got a fucking…a fucking creepy, sad'stic crush on Banner. 'S sick, to hear 'im talk, you know? I mean, Ross's my friend, an' I like 'im, but when he talks 'bout Bruce…'s a little explicit s'mtimes…"

"I don't care who said it," Clint gritted his teeth and shoved Barney away from him. "Just…just go to bed. Good luck at school tomorrow with the bitch of hangover you'll have."

He left Barney crumpled against the counter, struggling to get his feet under himself, and disappeared into his room, slamming his door behind him.

Part of him hoped Buck would come home right then and find Barney passed out drunk on the floor.

* * *

_Coulson dropped the stack of Bruce's medical records on the desk in front of Steve and tapped them with his fingers. "These are Bruce's medical records."_

_Steve's eyes flickered down to the pages for barely a moment. _

_Coulson propped his hip on the edge of the desk and regarded Steve seriously. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you what's in there."_

_"It's not any of our business," Steve replied through gritted teeth. His fingers dug harder into his arms._

_Coulson shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring Steve. "It might be."_

_"What is that supposed to mean?" Steve demanded softly._

_Coulson frowned at Steve and said bluntly, "The other guys working on this case think you're the reason he shows signs of being sexually assaulted. Now, I know it wasn't you. Not everyone else is quite so sure."_

_"I've never touched him," Steve rose to his feet, propelled by anger, and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "I would never make him…I completely respect the way he is, and I wouldn't ever pressure him into anything."_

_"I know that," Coulson reassured him, holding up his hands innocently. "My colleagues aren't as sure. Help me out, give me something to work with here; has Bruce been seeing someone?"_

_Steve shook his head and sank back into his chair, the anger seemingly draining from his body. He stared down at his hands where his fingers were curled into loose fists. "I…no. He's not…"_

_"Has anyone made any kind of unwanted advances?" Coulson asked._

_Steve hesitated a moment before he shrugged almost imperceptibly. "I…there is this one guy…" he shook his head and set his lips into a thin line. "It's not my place to say."_

Steve peeled off his shirt and tossed it into his gym locker before pulling out the loose blue t-shirt. He shut his locker door and plopped down on the end of one of the benches to tie his shoes. He was tired, honestly; sometimes he found it difficult to get back to sleep without the sound of Bucky's heavy snoring in the next bed over.

Steve was jarred out of his thoughts by the sound of a body being shoved into the lockers and Ross's cold, taunting voice saying jeeringly, "What's wrong, Banner, are you afraid you'll catch yourself eyeing me up a little too long?"

Steve tensed and tightened the knot of his shoe before rising to his feet and listening closely, ready to interfere if things got out of hand. He knew Bruce wouldn't appreciate him being too overprotective, but the sound of Ross's voice was enough to set him of edge already. He'd never liked the way Ross looked at Bruce, or talked to Bruce, and he'd especially hated the "accidental" touches when he brushed by Bruce in the hallway that were closer to him feeling Bruce up than anything. Bruce gritted his teeth and put up with it, reluctant to talk about it or tell anyone what was going on. Steve had attempted to bring it up more times than he could count, but Bruce always blinked at him innocently and said he didn't know what Steve was talking about.

"You'd rather have me out here so I could look at you?" Bruce replied sharply, his voice quiet but strong. "I didn't realize you were interested."

The sound of a body hitting the lockers again sent Steve into action, and he whipped around the corner to find Bruce being shoved into the lockers by an angry looking Ross. Ross had an arm across Bruce's throat, and damn it that Banner had to go and make enemies with one of the biggest guys in school. Ross towered over Bruce, and ducked his head to hiss into his ear, "I'd be careful how you talked to me, Banner, or I might take it as an invitation."

"You wish," Bruce gasped, reaching up to dig his fingernails into Ross's arm. He dragged them across his skin, drawing blood, but Ross didn't let go. His other hand was preoccupied with wandering down to the waistband of Bruce's jeans.

"I swear to God, Bruce," Ross spoke so lowly Steve could barely hear him. His mouth was centimeters from Bruce's ear, so close his lips probably brushed Bruce's skin. "You will come crawling back to me; you're mine, you belong to me, you always have, and it's about time you recognized it."

Steve managed to insert himself between Bruce and Ross before Bruce hauled back and punched the taller boy in the face; the last thing Bruce needed was to be dragged into the office and suspended for fighting again. Bruce always came back to school nursing more bruises than he'd left with. Steve grinned tightly down at Ross and placed his hands on his chest to push the light haired boy away. "Hey, calm down, guys. Ross, just leave Bruce alone. He wasn't bothering you."

"I'm just curious about what he's hiding under all those layers," Ross's eyes flashed maliciously and he sneered at Bruce. "You've never wondered why he hides in the showers to change?" When Steve didn't reply, Ross's eyebrows drew together and he eyed Steve with renewed interest. "Unless you've already seen." Ross shot a glare back at Bruce, rage twisting his features into a grimace. "Is that why you don't want me? You're putting out for him?"

Steve's expression remained stoic, but his stomach went cold as his repressed suspicions flooded his mind at Ross's mention of Bruce hiding something under all his layers of clothing.

"Well, in that case, you won't mind this," Ross grinned and managed to get an arm around Steve to yank the hem of Bruce's shirt up.

It didn't expose much, just a strip of skin maybe an inch wide, but it was enough. Dark, painful bruises marred Bruce's pale skin and blossomed all along the waistband of his jeans. The ones over his hips and stomach were especially dark. Bruce managed to yank the hem of his shirt back down, blushing bright red with embarrassment. Steve felt the hot flush in Bruce's cheek where it was pressed to the back of his neck. Steve shoved Ross away from both of them and snarled angrily, "I said stay away from him, Ross."

Ross's upper lip curled and he paused for a moment, examining Steve closely. Steve was tempted to let out a deep breath when Ross finally took a step away. He could feel Bruce's chest heaving against his back, and the smaller boy's fingers curled into the back of Steve's navy colored shirt tightly.

Ross's gaze dropped from Steve's face to glare at Bruce for a moment, but nodded stiffly before stepping away, saying, "Whatever. Don't worry about it, Banner. I'll have to find you some other time." He turned on his heel and strode towards the door through the deserted locker room and into the gym.

Steve sucked in a deep breath and moved to release Bruce from where he was pinned to the lockers. Bruce let go of Steve's shirt and crossed his arms across his chest, ducking his head so his thick curls fell into his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably and forced himself to look up at Steve, but was obviously shaken by what Ross had said. He cleared his throat and said softly, "Thanks, Steve. But I had it under control."

"Hmmm," Steve hummed doubtfully and eyed Bruce carefully. There were dark circles under his eyes, which weren't necessarily unusual, but they worried Steve nonetheless "I couldn't listen to him talk to you like that. About you like that, I mean. It's sick, Bruce. He has no right to even think of you that…that way."

"He can think whatever he wants," Bruce snorted, digging his fingers into his arms. The words obviously caused him some discomfort, and Steve could see him struggling with the thought of Ross imagining him like that.

Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek and shook his head shortly, reaching out to rest a hand on Bruce's arm. Bruce had a point, but that didn't stop Steve from wanting to beat Ross's face in for ever making Bruce feel like this. He hesitated before he suggested softly, "If you talk to someone…"

Bruce's eyes flashed and he picked up his books from where they were stacked on the bench. He clutched them to his chest and snapped, "I can take care of myself, Steve. I know that might be hard for you and Tony to believe, but I am perfectly capable of handling myself. Just…just leave it alone, alright?"

Steve was stunned by the outburst and gaped silently at Bruce as the younger man strode out of the locker room clutching his books so tightly his knuckles were white.

* * *

_"I do find it interesting," Coulson commented lightly, flicking through the papers in front of him. He could feel Tony's eyes on him, watching him, trying to determine his next move. "That Banner has an IQ that is well above genius level, that your principal tells me that he feels Bruce's intellect can't even be measured on the same scale, yet he is barely passing his classes."_

_Tony raised an eyebrow. "What, you want me to complain about how arbitrary that test is and talk about how the American education system is crap? Everyone knows that."_

_"Don't avoid the question," Coulson smiled coolly. "You're smart, Stark, but you make your mistake in thinking everyone else is stupid. Maybe that's why you like Bruce so much. He can keep up with you, but you don't have to compete for grades."_

_"That has nothing to do with it," Tony's sarcastic smile immediately dropped and he glared at Coulson, his expression solemn and serious. "He's my best friend, and I'm not going to cheapen that by letting you define our relationship with another goddamn number."_

Tony tapped his foot impatiently, keeping an eye on the door of the locker room as he checked his email on his phone. Bruce was usually the last one out, because he waited for everyone else to change, but everyone had filed out five minutes ago and there was still no sign of Bruce.

The door was pushed open again and Tony opened his mouth, ready to complain about how they were going to be late for English, but groaned when he saw it was Steve. "Damn it, Rogers, I thought you were Bruce."

"We do bear a striking resemblance," Steve said dryly, and Tony had to hold back a small smile.

He forced him lips to turn downwards in a scowl. "Fortunately for Bruce, you don't. Where is he?"

Steve got that deer in the headlights look that Tony usually associated with his reaction to being asked about Bucky. He rubbed the back of his neck (in a very Bruce like way, Tony noted irritably) and replied slowly, "I…I'm not sure. He ditched class."

"He ditched class?" Tony drew his eyebrows together skeptically. "What happened?"

Steve cleared his throat and admitted softly, "Ross cornered him before gym in the locker room. He…he said some things, roughed him up…I pried them apart and Bruce disappeared."

"What did Ross say to him?" Tony narrowed his eyes and glared in the direction Ross had gone when he'd left the locker room. He was so fucking sick of Ross and how he treated Bruce. It was disgusting. If he had to tell Bruce one more time that it was okay that he didn't want to sleep with Ross, that it was his choice, and that he had nothing to be ashamed of, he was going to scream.

Steve blushed and murmured quietly, "Just…just some bull about how Bruce was his, and how he was going to…to come crawling back to him. His…his hands kind of…wandered, before I could get in between them."

"That's not the worst thing he's said to Bruce," Tony said gruffly, jerking his head in the direction of the science wing of the building and taking off. Steve hurried to keep up with him, glancing back uncertainly at the Spanish classroom he was supposed to be heading towards. "What did you say to him?"

"I just told Ross didn't have the right to talk to him like that, or think of him like that," Steve said tersely. He hesitated a moment, and Tony could tell there was more. "And I…I said that maybe, if he would talk to someone…"

Tony groaned and quickened his pace. "Damn it, Steve. You had to open your mouth."

"I wanted to help," Steve offered weakly, lengthening his stride to keep up with Tony. "I didn't mean to make him more upset."

"Well, you did," Tony snapped. He suddenly found himself being grabbed by the shoulders and slammed in to the wall of lockers on the side of the hall.

Steve had been considerate enough not to shove him up against the protruding locks, but the metal still dug into his back uncomfortably. Steve met Tony's gaze steadily, his blue eyes solemn. "Listen, Stark, I know you don't like me all that much, but you know perfectly well that I care about him."

Tony put his hands on Steve's chest to shove him away roughly. "I know you do. That's what I'm freaked out about."

"Freaked out about?" Steve repeated softly, releasing his grip on Tony's shirt and taking a step back. "Why?"

Tony swallowed hard and ducked his head, shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably. "Because it scares him, too."

Steve stared at him for a moment, unsure of what Tony meant. Tony cleared his throat and scrubbed his hand across his mouth. His eyes flickered up to Steve's face and his gaze hardened. He jabbed his finger into Steve's chest and said forcefully. "And if you hurt him, if you make one move that he's not okay with, if you ever make him feel like shit for anything he does, anything he is, I won't fucking hesitate to wreck you, Rogers. And don't think I can't do it."

Steve's eyebrows drew together and he looked down at Tony, confused. "Is this the talk you gave everyone else when they told you they cared about Bruce? I have the feeling Natasha wouldn't take well to being threatened."

Tony rolled his eyes and muttered something about how 'two people who are so fucking oblivious deserve each other' before storming away down the hallway. Steve trailed after him, perplexed at Tony's reaction. Tony held up a hand and called, "Go to class. I'll talk to him. He won't want you to see him upset."

"Tony—" Steve started to protest, but didn't get a chance to argue his case before Tony had ducked into one of the deserted labs and slammed the door behind him. He could hear Steve jiggling the knob for a moment before cursing softly and striding away, evidently giving up for the time being. Tony had no doubt he'd find Bruce after school to talk to him.

He turned to glance around the room, expecting Bruce to be in his usual spot at the counter in the back corner of the room. He started slightly when he realized Bruce was sitting on the floor in front of the counter closest to him, his back pressed against one of the counters and a notebook open on his lap. He was writing something frantically, his face creased with concentration. Tony wandered over to him and plopped down next to him, remaining silent for the time being. He had to evaluate just how upset Bruce was before he tried to say anything.

He looked down at the page, trying to discern what Bruce was working on.

It didn't look like anything specifically; it was just a long string of equations, but Tony figured it had some sort of significance in Bruce's mind. Bruce would probably want the papers burned when he calmed down, for fear of his father discovering them.

"Hey, Bruce," Tony laid a hand across the paper, stopping Bruce from writing and forcing him to look up. Bruce reluctantly tore his gaze from the paper and met Tony's eyes, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. Tony smiled at him reassuringly and asked, "What are you working on?"

"Just some equations," Bruce made a vague motion with his hands and twisted his lips into a frown. "I mean, theoretical stuff…I can't…I'm not…"

"Hey, it's alright," Tony cut him off before he could start to panic again, resting a hand on his knee. "Don't bother trying to explain it to me, I can't follow half that stuff anyway."

Bruce raised an eyebrow doubtfully, his eyes clearing slightly. "Don't do that."

"What?" Tony asked innocently, squeezing Bruce's knee reassuringly. "Touch your leg, or talk?"

"Shut up," Bruce muttered, a faint smile crossing his features. He tilted his head back against the counter and let his eyes fall closed, taking a deep breath. After a few moments, he spoke up softly, "We're late."

"Ms. Gray will understand," Tony brushed off Bruce's concern, knowing that he wouldn't have a problem talking his way out of this. It helped that most of the teachers had a soft spot for Bruce; Tony attributed it to the fluffy hair. "Take a second if you need it."

Bruce nodded, inhaling and exhaling a few more times before the knots in his shoulders unwound slightly. His Adam's apple bobbed almost imperceptibly when he swallowed hard before he spoke again. "I shouldn't have snapped at him. He just wants to help."

Tony pursed his lips and tilted his head in reluctant agreement. "He's got good intentions. You, however, were apparently fairly shaken up at the time."

"I wasn't shaken up," Bruce denied flatly, glaring at Tony out of the corner of his eye.

"Funny," Tony leaned back against the counter and gazed up at the ceiling with faked interest. "I'd probably be shaken up if a guy twice my size pinned me to a locker, felt me up, and threatened me."

"It's not anything new," Bruce said softly, hunching forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He buried his hands in his hair, tugging at the wild curls with his fingers. "I'm used to it. It's not a big deal."

"You shouldn't be used to that," Tony shook his head indignantly, sitting up straight. "Listen to yourself, Bruce; you're _used_ to being sexually harassed by that ape?"

Bruce shrugged and dropped his arms to his sides, turning his head to look up at Tony helplessly. "What am I supposed to do? Tell someone? What do you think they'll do, realistically, Tony? At best, they'll drag me in for a physical exam, and that opens up a whole new can of worms."

"Maybe it's about time some of those worms made their way out of the can," Tony muttered, rubbing his hands over his face tiredly. He hadn't slept well the night before. His parents had been fighting down the hallway in their room, and he couldn't make himself fall asleep before they'd stopped.

Bruce gave him a weird look. He reached out and rested a hand on the crook of Tony's elbow lightly. "Are you alright?"

"Me? Yeah, of course," Tony pushed himself to his feet, hoping Bruce didn't notice the way he swayed slightly. He reached down and offered a hand to Bruce to help him up. Bruce took it reluctantly. Tony frowned when he felt how easy it was to lift Bruce from the floor; despite Tony's best efforts, he couldn't force Bruce to eat. Bruce eyed him suspiciously and pulled his hand out of Tony's once he'd righted himself.

Bruce cleared his throat and demanded softly, "Roll up your sleeves."

"Why?" Tony asked automatically, his stomach going cold. His heart jumped to his throat and his breathing become slightly more labored. He reflexively felt for his inhaler in his left pocket.

Bruce went a shade paler and crossed his arms over his chest. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and serious. "Let me see your arms."

"I don't see why—"

"Tony," Bruce snapped shortly, a thin line appearing between his eyebrows. "Please just…you've looked tired and stressed lately and I just want to make sure…please…"

Tony swallowed hard and turned his head away from Bruce, unable to maintain eye contact with his best friend, but rolled up the sleeves of his long sleeve shirt. Bruce reached out and gripped his arms, examining them closely and being extremely careful not to touch the thin white ridges that crisscrossed the soft skin. Satisfied, he let go of Tony and took a step back. Bruce let out a shaky sounding sigh of relief and turned away from him, covering his face with trembling hands.

Tony cleared his throat and said quietly, "I promised. And I haven't stopped taking my meds. I see the doctor at least once a month."

"I know," Bruce agreed, his voice edging on hysterical. "I just…you've been…I know it's not…"

Tony moved closer to Bruce and reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. As much as he'd beaten himself up and destroyed himself during his breakdown a few years back, he's dragged Bruce through just as much shit.

Bruce tensed for a moment under his touch automatically before he relaxed and turned to face Tony, his expression schooled back into being calm and pleasant. Something deep inside Tony shifted and cracked at the sight of how easy it was for Bruce to look okay, and he flung his arms around Bruce, struck by a sudden surge of emotion warming his chest. Bruce's arms snaked around his waist to return the embrace, and Tony buried his nose in Bruce's thick hair, inhaling the scent of cheap soap and cigarette smoke. He wasn't so much of a hugger himself, and Bruce normally shrunk away from physical contact, but he had to admit that it felt good, it felt safe, when they did embrace. He'd woken up wrapped around Bruce more times than he cared to admit on nights when they'd stayed up to work late, and he always slept better with Bruce around.

Tony drew away from the tight embrace, not letting go of Bruce's bicep quite yet. His lips twitched into a half smile. Bruce looked a little embarrassed, and he swiped at the corners of his eyes irritably. Tony squeezed his arms and said reassuringly, "I'm okay, Bruce."

Bruce nodded gratefully, clutching at Tony's shirt. Tony let go of Bruce's arms and Bruce released the front of his shirt reluctantly. Tony smoothed out his clothing and smiled widely at Bruce, his snarky, charming mask firmly back in place. "I guess we should try to figure out an excuse for Gray. I was thinking about going with the old 'we got stuck helping Logan lug in the new gym equipment he ordered for his classes'. He'd cover for us if she asked."

"Alright," Bruce agreed, in that faint voice that Tony had learned to associate with exhaustion. Tony pulled open the door and held it for Bruce, allowing the smaller man to shuffle through before him.

He jabbed at the small of Bruce's back as he passed by, causing the other man to jump and let out a surprised yelp. Tony grinned at him innocently. "Don't look so grim."

"I'm not," Bruce insisted sharply. "That's just my face."

Tony rolled his eyes and let the door close behind them.

In the deserted lab, the pages of a plain blue notebook rustled in the breeze from the open window.

* * *

**So there you go. I hope you all liked it *chuckles nervously* **

**Things will get intense, I promise. There will be more action soon (hopefully).**

**Please review if you have a second, I love to hear from you:)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Next chapter! This took longer than expected, and I'm not entirely happy with it, but I've worked through it to the point where I just done with it. I hope you all don't hate it (I'm just afraid it's a little rushed and I need to work a few more things in to explain some loose ends, but I promise I will take care of it!)**

**So, if that didn't scare you off, here it is:)**

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: slash, language, physical child abuse, violence, minor character death, abuse, mentions of self harm and depression.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"_How do you get along with your brother?" Coulson asked, glancing down at Thor's file. His teachers had expressed some concern about Thor's relationship with his brother, saying that they seemed to be acting oddly around each other, and that more than one of them had seen the younger one antagonizing Thor in front of his friends in the hallways. _

_Thor shrugged and replied slowly, "He…we manage." He paused for a moment before continuing, "Lately, I have not had the chance to…to see him often."_

"_Losing your mother must have put a tax on your relationship," Coulson said softly, noting a muscle in Thor's jaw jump._

_Thor stiffened and rubbed his hand across his mouth nervously. "I…I suppose."_

Thor huffed impatiently, rubbing his hands up and down his arms to attempt to warm himself up a little. He could see his breath, and his hair was still damp from showering after practice, which did nothing to help with the shivers running through his broad frame. There was no sign of Loki, and Thor was getting impatient. He had been leaning on the hood of their car for ten minutes, waiting. He perked up when the front door opened, but deflated again when he saw that it wasn't his younger brother.

It was Bruce, however, so Thor waved, forcing his lips into a bright smile. Bruce caught his eye and waved back, smiling just as tightly. A black truck in the drop off zone honked its horn and Bruce jumped slightly, startled. His gaze flickered from Thor to the truck, and he stepped towards the vehicle, shooting Thor an apologetic smile.

"Bruce!" Thor turned to see Steve bounded down the front steps, his sketchbook clutched to his chest. Bruce froze and turned on his heel to face Steve, throwing a nervous look back at his father. Steve stopped barely a foot away from Bruce, no closer than he was usually allowed, but Bruce shifted away uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest. Thor could see Brian Banner sit up a little straighter in his truck as he watched his son.

Steve spoke earnestly to Bruce, his eyebrows drawn together with worry. Bruce's fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and lay a hand on Steve's shoulder, but forced himself not to. He replied softly, glancing furtively over his shoulder, and Steve's face relaxed into a smile. Bruce's lips twitched, but he didn't allow himself to grin fully. He turned back to the truck and strode towards it with his head bowed and his bag clutched tightly in his hands.

"Enjoying the view?"

Thor started when Loki's voice came from right next to his ear and clutched at his chest. His heart beat erratically under his palm and he sucked in a deep breath. "You scared me."

Loki shrugged and moved away from Thor to climb into the driver's seat. Thor pulled open the passenger's side door and ducked inside, immediately reaching to turn up the heat. Loki's hand reached out to slap his away before he could touch the dials. He snapped shortly, "Don't touch those, it's warm enough in here."

"It is fifteen degrees outside," Thor argued, but made no move to try to turn the heat up again. It wasn't worth arguing; it seemed like that was all he and Loki did lately. He slouched back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest in an effort to warm his fingers.

"And we're inside," Loki snapped, pressing his foot down on the gas pedal and gunning it out of the parking lot.

Thor gazed out the window, watching the houses and trees fly by and trying not to focus on the uncomfortable silence in the car. It hadn't always been like this. He remembered when he and Loki used to be able to talk and laugh and fight like brothers. He missed the camaraderie, he missed the banter, and, most of all he missed his brother. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes and asked softly, keeping his gaze locked on the dashboard, "What have I done to upset you?"

Loki seemed mildly surprised by the question. Thor cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing immediately that he hadn't said anything. Loki considered it a moment before replying quietly, "You have been different since our mother's death."

"You speak as if that is something surprising," Thor said tersely, his hands clenching into tight fists on his lap.

"It's not simply grief," Loki snapped back irritably. "You are suffering some sort of ailment of the mind, Thor. Do not think it had escaped my notice. It is unbefitting of a future king, and I only wish that you would put it aside so that we may return home."

"You are treating me this way because you want to return home?" Thor's voice softened slightly in understanding. He didn't believe he could ever face their home again, not when it was stained with the memories and blood of his murdered mother, so it had never occurred to him that Loki may miss it.

Loki's grip on the steering wheel tightened and he hissed through gritted teeth, "I am treating you how you deserve to be treated for letting this…this sickness affect you. You do not deserve the title you hold."

"And you think you are more deserving?" Thor asked, trying to keep his latent anger from creeping into his voice, already sure he knew the answer.

"Of course I am," Loki snorted derisively, shooting an incredulous glare at Thor. "I have not let myself be overtaken by this. I have not used this as an excuse to keep from performing my duties."

"You were not directly involved," Thor contested, his throat tightening as he spoke. He swallowed hard, but it didn't help; his words still stuck in his throat painfully. "I watched her die. You saw no such thing, you were not forced to stand by, helpless, and watch her…you have to understand, brother…"

"I am not your brother!" Loki slammed on the brakes at a stop sign, hard. Thor lurched forward at the sudden stop. He winced and readjusted himself in the seat, tugging at his seatbelt where it had dug into him painfully. Loki closed his eyes for a moment and took a few deep steadying breaths before saying more quietly. "Do not call me something you have no right to."

Thor pursed his lips and didn't reply, his throat tight and aching. He crossed his arms and stared out the window, his brother's harsh words ringing in his ears.

* * *

"_The night it happened," Coulson asked abruptly. "In November, I mean. Where were you?"_

_Tony swallowed hard and leaned back in his chair, trying to push back the memories of that night, of the night everything had started to spin wildly out of control and they'd all begun to crumble, the night Bruce finally shattered into a million pieces and had to be picked up and put back together only to be dragged through even more shit, the night everything had torn at the seams. _

"_I was at home."_

Tony dropped his backpack onto the floor inside the door and kicked off his slushy boots. He hesitated a moment before heading towards the kitchen, resolving to brave a conversation with his father if it was necessary; he wanted some damn potato chips.

Howard wasn't in the kitchen, but Tony could hear his voice clearly from the living room. He hovered behind the cabinets, out of view of the sofa.

"…not as if I wanted to do it, Maria," Howard was saying irritably. "We can't afford to keep on so many people in a division that barely produces anything marketable."

"It's nuclear research, Howard," Maria snapped. "You can't expect them to solve the energy crisis in a weekend."

"They've had ten years," Howard pointed out gruffly, in a tone that showed he clearly wanted to end the conversation there.

There was a short silence before Maria asked softly, "And have you decided who to let go?"

Howard sighed, but gave into his wife's curiosity and replied lowly, "Yes. Definitely Johnson, Stevens, Jacobi, and Banner. There are a few others I'm on the fence about. Obie's crunching some numbers tonight; we may have to get a rid of a few more to…"

Tony's stomach dropped. He made to move away and escape upstairs, (he had to call Bruce, he had to warn him, because Brian was going to be pissed when he found out) but his heel caught on the corner of the cabinets and he stumbled, barely managing to catch himself on the counter top before he could fall flat on his face.

"Tony?" Maria called.

Tony cringed and considered trying to inch away and hope they thought they were just hearing things. He took a second too long to consider and missed his chance; his father rounded the corner into the kitchen with his mother trailing behind him before he could make a break for it. Tony's hand slipped into his back pocket and he pulled out his phone. He unlocked the screen, glancing up at his parents quickly before sending Bruce a text message.

**Are you at home?**

"We didn't hear you come in," Maria crossed the room and made as if she was going to pull Tony into a hug. Tony instinctively stepped back before he could stop himself, his body reacting automatically.

He cursed inwardly when his mother's grin fell slightly and she stopped short of touching him. She brushed her hair behind her ear and made a weak attempt to play it off. "I…Dinner will be in about an hour."

"An hour?" Howard repeated, glancing up from his phone and grimacing. "I'll be on a call. Just go ahead without me."

"And there it is," Tony muttered, rolling his eyes and stepping towards the front hall again. He ignored his mother's chastising glare and continued sharply, gesturing vaguely with his hand in front of him. "Alright, well, I actually have a thing tonight, too."

"A thing?" Maria asked, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "What kind of thing? A school function?"

Tony nodded readily, slightly disappointed he hadn't gotten to come up with his own outlandish excuse. He agreed enthusiastically, "Yeah, a school thing. I just came by to pick a few things up."

"There's nothing on your school calendar for tonight," Howard cut in coolly from where he was leaning on the counter across the kitchen, scrolling through something on his phone.

Tony stiffened and replied tersely, "Yeah, well, sometimes they forget to put everything on there. It gets disorganized around there as the year goes on, especially so close to the holidays; everyone's busy."

Howard lifted his gaze from the phone and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I—" he was cut off by his phone ringing. He glanced down at the screen for a moment before looking back up at Tony and saying firmly, "You're not going out tonight. Stay in with your mother. I don't want you wandering around town with your unfortunate choices in friends. I'll be in my office." The implied 'don't interrupt me' hung in the cool air of the kitchen as he disappeared down the hallway. Somewhere further inside the house, a door slammed.

Tony groaned in disappointment, his chest feeling tight and slightly painful. His father had never particularly liked Bruce (or Clint, Thor, and Natasha, for that matter), but he rarely outright insulted them. Tony rubbed his hand over his mouth and forced his breathing to even out, chastising himself for not defending them when he'd had the chance. Maria watched him sadly, tugging at the ends of her dark hair. She spoke up softly after a few moments, saying, "You can go. I'll just…I can find something to do."

She wandered towards the living room, leaving Tony hovering in the doorway and laden with guilt. He bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. His phone vibrated and he pulled it out to check it, watching Maria absentmindedly rearrange the flowers on the coffee table.

**Yes. Dad is pissed. Not sure why. Hasn't bothered me about it.**

Tony stared blankly at the screen for a few long seconds. By 'bothered me' Tony could safely assume Bruce meant 'beaten the shit out of me', and Tony wasn't sure if he took that as a good or bad sign. He hesitated a moment, formulating a few possible replies before going with,

**Call me if he does. I'll come and get you. **

Tony slipped his phone back into his pocket and set off to find his mother, the corners of his eyes stinging and his throat tight.

* * *

"_They gave me a file on James Barnes when I was assigned the case," Coulson tapped a plain blue folder on the desk and glanced up at Steve. "Were you and him close?"_

_Steve went a few shades paler and nodded stiffly. "He's my best friend."_

Steve tapped his foot nervously, pressing the phone to his ear and listening to the dial tone hopefully. Bucky got the phone on Tuesdays, but sometimes he couldn't get to a phone or someone else needed it for something important. Steve hated those weeks; they left him worried and sick to his stomach until the next week when he heard Bucky's voice and knew for sure he was still alive.

"Steve?" Steve grinned when he heard Bucky's voice.

"Hey, Bucky," Steve said warmly, flopping back onto his mattress. "How's it going?"

"Same old, same old out here, kid," Bucky replied. Steve could hear him adjusting the phone against his shoulder and a door closing on the other end of the line. "You don't want to hear about this crap. What's been going on back home?"

"Obviously it's much more exciting here than it is in an active war zone," Steve said, half joking, half chastising Bucky for making light of his situation. "It's…we're all fine. Things are normal; Tony's still obnoxious and Thor broke three beakers in Chemistry yesterday."

"Have you sorted out your applications for school?" Bucky asked.

Steve sighed and rubbed his hand over his face tiredly. "I…Rick and Sharon…they don't want…"

"Fuck what they want, Steve," Bucky snapped before he could finish. "Find a school that you like and fill out a goddamn application."

"We don't even know if I'll get in," Steve argued. "It's stupid. They get thousands of applications and I—"

"If I have to hear that argument from you one more time I am putting myself on a plane and flying home to knock some sense into you," Bucky threatened, tenderness creeping into his tone. "Promise me you'll send at least one in."

"Buck…" Steve sighed, exasperated.

"Steven," Bucky whined back obnoxiously. "Don't be such a baby. At least try."

Steve rolled his eyes.

"Don't roll your eyes at me!" Bucky snapped. Steve blanked and pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at it for a moment, stunned. He put it back to his ear in time to hear, "Promise me."

"Okay," Steve relented. "I'll send a few in, if it means that much to you. Now tell me what's going on with you. Have you been at the base all week?"

He let out a small sigh of relief when Bucky let the subject go and started to tell him about the jerk in the bunk next to his that he'd been having problems with for the past few weeks. He felt himself drifting after a few minutes, lulled to sleep by the familiar rumble of Bucky's voice. Bucky must have heard him sigh sleepily, because he stopped in the middle of his story and said softly, "It's alright, Steve, go to sleep. I'll talk to you next week."

"Hmmm," Steve mumbled, rolling onto his side and clutching the phone to his ear. "I…'m not…not tired."

"Yeah, okay," Bucky replied doubtfully, and Steve could hear the smile in his voice. "Goodnight, punk."

"Night, jerk," Steve smiled into his arm and waited for Bucky to hang up before he dropped the phone onto his mattress. He reached for his sketchbook and pulled it towards himself across the bed, flipping it open to the page he wanted. He ran his fingers over the picture of Bucky and the others he'd done the week before Bucky had left, still not content with something in Bucky's smile, the lack of light in Thor's eyes, the too-neat arrangement of Bruce's hair. He debated reaching for him pencil to fix it, but couldn't work up the energy before sleep pulled him under.

* * *

"_Bruce was out for a few days?" Coulson asked, glancing at the timeline he'd managed to scrounge together from various accounts. _

_Natasha nodded and said reluctantly, "It was…unusual. He doesn't usually stay home unless he's really sick."_

"_Were you concerned?" Coulson asked, watching her closely for a reaction. He couldn't tell if she simply didn't care about Bruce or anything that had happened, or if she was being intentionally cold to him in an effort to protect Bruce._

_She fixed him with another stoic, unreadable gaze. "We all were."_

Natasha placed her backpack next to her desk and slid into her seat, reaching into her bag to pull out her History notebook. She glanced across the aisle from her, where Steve and Tony were leaning over in their chairs to argue quietly about something. She turned around towards them and listened to what they were saying.

"…two days, Steve," Tony was saying, his voice verging on hysterical despite its low tone. "He won't pick up his phone and he hasn't answered my texts. Something's wrong."

"You don't know that," Steve said, shaking his head. He didn't look entirely convinced of his own reassurances, but he pressed on nonetheless. "He could just be sick and feel too horrible to worry about his phone. He's looked really tired lately."

"You honestly think he'd rather stay home than be here while he's sick?" Tony demanded. "Remember when he came in last year with the flu? I practically had to drag him back to my place."

Steve pursed his lips and glared at Tony, but seemed to be at a loss for words. Natasha's gaze flickered to the empty seat next to Tony and she realized what they were arguing about; Bruce wasn't in school for the second day in a row.

She could understand Tony's concern. Bruce was always at school; it was his escape. He hadn't missed a day since he'd been hospitalized overnight last year. He'd been out for a few days then. She couldn't recall the complete story he'd given them, but she couldn't forget the waxy look of his skin and the vibrant bruises around his wrists she'd seen when he'd come back.

She leaned over to intrude on the conversation and asked both of them, "Have you tried going by his house?"

"I drive by it every day," Steve nodded, pursing his lips and tapping his fingers nervously on the edge of his desk. "I haven't noticed anything weird. It's as quiet as ever. His dad's car has been in the driveway past seven in the morning all week, though, which is kind of odd. He's usually left for work by the time I go by."

"His dad lost his job," Tony said stiffly. "Monday. I texted Bruce, but I didn't…" Tony trailed off, glaring down at the tile floors. He ran his hands through his hair and sucked in a short, irritable breath.

"I'll go and check on him after school," Steve said decisively, tapping his pen against his open notebook, a small crease of worry between his blonde eyebrows.

"You want to piss his dad off even more?" Tony snorted. "Yeah, that's just what he needs; His dad beating the shit out of him because he doesn't like the way you two look at each other."

"If there is any indication that something is wrong, I'm getting him out of there," Steve snapped, sounding uncharacteristically irritable. He turned to hunch over his desk, leaving Tony to stare at his back. He slipped his phone out and held it under the desk, discreetly checking the screen. His expression darkened and he stuffed the phone back into his pocket, disgruntled.

Tony stared at Steve for a moment, taken aback, and chewed on the inside of his cheek, tapping his fingers on the desktop restlessly. "I don't know what's got your panties in a bunch lately, but you're really starting to piss me off."

The corner of Steve's lips twitched, but he didn't turn around to explain or refute Tony's words. His fingers tightened around his pen and his ducked his head, determinedly ignoring both of his friends.

* * *

"_Your coach mentioned that that night was the first you attended practice that month," Coulson said. "Any reason why?"_

_Thor considered a moment before replying quietly, "I was tired frequently."_

"_Tired?" Coulson repeated incredulously. Thor shifted uncomfortably in the chair and ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the tangles in the thick blonde locks. "It says here that you're clinically—"_

"_I am aware of my diagnosis," Thor cut him off sharply, leveling him with an unflappable glare. "I responded truthfully to your question. I was tired."_

Thor chewed on his bottom lip and gazed blankly at the bar and weights from where he sat straddling the bench, trying to work up the motivation to lie back and complete the sets he was supposed to be doing for his training program. He plucked at the fraying edges of the cushioned bench absentmindedly, unwilling to come out of the unfeeling, disconnected trance he'd fallen into; the feeling of all-encompassing numbness seeping through him was relaxing, and it made him reluctant to snap himself out of it.

"Thor?"

Thor started, forced out of his thoughts when Logan's voice interrupted him from the door. He pushed his thick hair out of his face and looked up to meet his coach's gaze. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hand across his mouth, muttering gruffly, "Hello. I was just about to begin…"

Logan stepped into the room and scrutinized him with concern. "Where's your spotter?"

"Steve had to leave early today," Thor replied truthfully. "He needed to collect supplies for our Chemistry project. I told him I did not require his assistance."

Logan raised an eyebrow at the weights. "You should have someone with you. School rules."

Thor shrugged, unconcerned, and returned his attention to the frayed edges of the bench.

He heard Logan sigh and felt the cushion on the bench shift when the larger man plopped down next to him. Logan was silent for a moment before he said, "Listen, Thor. I don't know what's up with you lately, and I don't know if you do either, but you've missed seven practices this month."

"That's not too many," Thor shrugged, dismissing the statement without much thought. He glanced up at the clock and sighed inwardly; he had to meet Steve at his house in two hours to finish their project. He just wanted to go home and go to sleep.

"We've had ten," Logan pointed out, nodding shortly when Thor's eyebrows shot up. "Yeah. You can see why I'm a little pissed."

"I'm sorry," Thor stumbled over his words, searching for the phrases articulate what he wanted Logan to understand. He clenched his hands in his lap and picked at his fingernails nervously. "I am not…I have been tired, and quite frankly, I have no interest in…in…"

"In football?" Logan finished for him, shocked. He shook his head and continued, perplexed, "You've liked it alright since you came out here. What do you—?"

"In anything," Thor cut him off, finishing his own thought. He braced himself stared down at his hands, waiting for Logan to roll his eyes or tell him to stop being so melodramatic. "Interested in anything."

He flinched when Logan's hand rested on his shoulder for a brief moment, not expecting it. When he looked up, Logan was watching him with concern and understanding dancing across his rough features. Thor was taken aback; he'd never seen an expression so close to caring on his coach's face before. After a moment, Logan sighed softly and dropped his hand to his side again. His voice was surprisingly steady and nonjudgmental when he asked, "What are you telling me, kid? Is something seriously wrong? Have you tried to hurt yourself at all?"

Thor shook his head, too calm and unsurprised for Logan to believe that he'd never considered it before. "I have not. I couldn't…" His voice broke and he cleared his throat nervously. He couldn't even admit it to himself, let alone another person. He was too much of a coward to hurt himself; he had to content himself with the fact that everything hurt so much anyway, without his own input.

Logan bit the inside of his bottom lip and scratched at his knuckles absentmindedly. "You should go see the school shrink."

Thor's head snapped up and he replied scathingly, "I do not need to speak to anyone, especially not someone who makes their living prescribing for 'illnesses' that do not exist."

Logan rolled his eyes. "C'mon, kid, you don't really believe that bullshit. No matter what your dad has told you, you must know people have legitimate mental illnesses—"

"People have excuses," Thor snapped, rising to his feet and striding towards the door. He paused in the doorframe for a moment before adding over his shoulder, his tone softening slightly, "I'll do those sets tomorrow."

He took off down the hall without waiting for a response.

* * *

"_Where were you that night?" Coulson asked._

_Steve didn't have to ask what night he was referencing. He simply shook his head and shrugged exasperatedly, replying slowly "I drove by that afternoon and nothing was happening. It wasn't until night time that the screaming started."_

Steve slowed down in front of Bruce's house and coasted by, looking for some sign of life. The windows were lit up downstairs, but there were no shadows moving behind them. He stopped his truck for a moment, debating on whether it would help or hurt more to go up and knock on the door.

The last thing he wanted was for Bruce to get into trouble for something Steve did. Bruce could be fine; he could just be feeling tired or sick, and Steve didn't want to start a fight in his family if that's what his arrival instigated.

He hesitated, the toe of his sneaker tapping gently at the gas pedal, before pulling away from the curb and continuing down the street. If Bruce was still out tomorrow, then he'd try to convince Natasha to come down there with him and check out what was going on; Brian had always seemed to be more tolerant of her than any of Bruce's other friends (especially Tony and himself).

He sighed softly, trying to turn his thoughts to something that didn't leave a heavy weight in his chest, but only managed to turn his attention to his impending meeting with the college counselor later that night that his parents had set up. The applications he'd filled out for art school mocked him from the passenger's seat where they'd been lying all day while he struggled with whether to mail them or just save himself the disappointment.

The weight in his chest sank to his stomach and he pressed down on the gas pedal, setting his jaw and taking off towards the post office.

* * *

_Coulson leaned over the desk and tried to smile at Bruce as unthreateningly as possible. Murderer or not, the kid was obviously traumatized, and Coulson couldn't afford to scare him. He suggested gently, "I need you to walk me through that night one more time."_

_Bruce shook his head and crossed his arms over his middle, so he was hugging himself tightly. Coulson noticed the slight shaking in his hands increase, and his fingers clutched desperately at the sides of his sweater. His voice was surprisingly steady when he said, "I've already given three statements and a testimony. I don't have to do it again."_

"_You're still understandably shaken up," Coulson placated him, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder. Bruce shied away from the touch and Coulson pulled back, realizing too late what he'd done. He dug his hands into his pockets and went on smoothly, "It can't be easy, talking about watching your mother die like that."_

_Bruce's jaded eyes darkened and dropped to the floor._

Bruce huddled closer to the back wall of the hall closet, flinching when something heavy and made of glass smashed against the floor in the kitchen and his mother sobbed loudly. He buried his face in his knees and covered his ears with his hands, determinedly ignoring the tears running down his face and staining his lips with salt. Despite his best efforts to block it out, he could still hear his parents fighting.

"You think you can just up and leave, take my son and go? I have rights, I'm his father, for fuck's sake!"

"You don't deserve to call yourself that!"

"Put the bag down!" Brian was yelling at the top of his voice, regardless of the thin walls of the house and the neighbors less than twenty feet away.

"I should have left a long time ago, Brian; I should have left the first time you hit him. I haven't protected him like I should have, but I'm not going to let you keep doing this!" Rebecca shouted back. Bruce cringed; his mother never yelled.

"Doing what? He's got a roof over his head, he's got clothes, and he's not starving. What haven't I given the kid?"

"Maybe an ounce of your affection?" Rebecca snapped back venomously. Her voice softened, but only marginally, and she added, "You're killing him, Brian. He's terrified of you. He can barely stand being touched, he's not sleeping, and he's not eating. You can't tell me you haven't noticed. You're not that oblivious."

"It's not my fault he acts like a hormonal teenage girl," Brian snorted. Bruce heard their bedroom door open and Brian hastily added, "Rebecca, wait. Wait, please, just give me one minute." There was short pause before he continued. "I know I haven't been…I know that since Robert was born I've been…different. Honestly, I try so hard to provide for both of you, it's a lot…it's a lot of stress sometimes, and I can't…I can't…"

"You need to stop drinking so much," Rebecca suggested softly. "I'm sorry, Brian. But I can't stay here anymore, and I can't let Bruce stay here anymore."

"_You_ can't let him?" Brian repeated, his voice rising in anger. "It's not _your_ choice. He's my son, too. I have as much right as you do to him."

"Don't do this," Rebecca pleaded quietly. "Please, Brian, let us leave. I'll call and we can talk…"

"Don't give me orders, woman!" Brian roared, and the sound of a door slamming made Bruce twitch. His father's voice moved into the hallway, closer and closer to the closet Bruce was locked in. "I'm not giving you permission to leave. Do you want me to look bad in front of my coworkers because they think I don't have a handle on my son and my wife? It's bad enough they think Robert and that blonde kid are fucking, now I have to explain to them—"

"No one is trying to make you look bad," Rebecca placated him, panic coursing through the undercurrents of her tone. "We shouldn't—"

"You think you have to right to take him from me?" Brian demanded, as if he couldn't hear her at all. "You don't have the right to do anything besides what I tell you to do. So go unpack that fucking bag and start making dinner."

"No," Rebecca snapped determinedly. "I won't, I'm sick of living under your command, your dictatorship, and I'm not going to—"

The sickening familiar crack of a hand connecting with flesh erupted from right outside the closet door and Bruce heard his mother stumble into the opposite wall. Brian commanded loudly from right outside the closet door, "Go wait for me in the living room. I'll get Robert out and we can all sit down and talk about this."

"Don't hurt him, Brian, or we're leaving immediately," Rebecca warned her husband lowly, but Bruce heard her footsteps retreat towards the living room. His father's heavier footsteps approached the closet, and Bruce hunched over even more, his heart beating faster with every step his father took towards the door.

The lock of the door clicked and the small, cramped space was suddenly flooded with light, blinding Bruce and disorienting him enough to allow Brian to get a firm grip on his shirt and yank him out into the hall.

"Have you had enough?" Brian demanded, releasing his grip on Bruce's shirt. Bruce over balanced and fell against the doorframe of the kitchen, clutching at it to stay upright. "Or do you want to spend another night in there?"

"No," Bruce stammered, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted. The thought of another night locked in that small, airless pace made his stomach roll. "I…no, I've had enough…"

Brian snorted and shoved Bruce's chest, sending him stumbling into the kitchen. He hadn't been able to stand up and walk around in almost two days, making his legs feel unsteady and weak. He caught himself on the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table and moved to put it between his father and himself.

Brian held up his hands innocently and smiled, amused. "I'm not going to hit you, Robert."

Bruce's upper lip twitched. Brian smiled warmly and motioned to the chair Bruce was using to support himself. "Sit down for a minute."

Bruce considered refusing, but was too exhausted and drained to have any kind of conviction. He dropped into the chair, biting back a sigh of relief. He could hear his mother moving around restlessly in the living room.

He tensed when he felt his father's hands on his shoulders, but Brian's fingers didn't dig into his collarbone bruisingly like Bruce had expected them to. Instead, they rubbed soothingly at the tight knots of muscle in his shoulders, coaxing them to unwind. Bruce couldn't help himself from relaxing slightly under the ministrations, relieved at the sensation of looseness in his muscles after he'd been tense and cramped for the past two days.

"I just want to have a talk," Brian said simply, rubbing Bruce's shoulders soothingly. "Man to man. You are seventeen now. It's about time we had this discussion."

Bruce swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult.

"Before you were born I worked in a field that exposed me to a small amount of radiation," Brian said slowly, not ceasing in massaging Bruce's shoulders. "And, as I have informed you, it caused some sort of mutation in me that I have undoubtedly passed onto you."

Bruce nodded stiffly. He knew that. His father never failed to remind him that his stupidity, his "inclinations", his behavior, were all byproducts of some kind of mutation. He hated it, he hated that he had been warped and twisted into what he was because of some ridiculous accident his father had had years ago working on a useless project that had come to nothing.

"The thing is, Robert, I'm not exactly sure what went wrong with your DNA to make you…like you are," Brian continued. He leaned forward, so his mouth was close to Bruce's ear, and spoke so softly that Bruce was sure his mother couldn't hear him in the next room. "But now, since I'm…not going into work for a while, I have time to find out."

Bruce tensed again under his father's hands, his stomach sinking at the implications. "You…what do you…"

"Why don't you come downstairs and see what I'm working on?" Brian's fingers tightened on his shoulders painfully. "I would appreciate your help. A little father-son bonding." His voice lowered to a hiss. "I know you wouldn't leave with your mother; you wouldn't put her in that kind of danger."

"My help?" Bruce repeated hoarsely, digging his heels into the ground when Brian pushed him forward in an attempt to get him to stand. He had starting shaking at the mention of his father's lab; the memories he had of his father's lab were blurry and disjointed, but he could recall unbearable pain and desperate thoughts of _breathe, breathe, I can't breathe_, and _Mom, please, please, make him stop. _Bruce choked out, "I…I don't know…"

"I didn't really mean it as a question," Brian forced Bruce to his feet and shoved him towards the door to the basement. "You should thank your mother; she's the only reason you haven't spent your entire life in a lab." Bruce bit down on his bottom lip until he tasted blood and struggled to break free of his father's iron grip. "You should be thanking me. We're going to figure out what's wrong with you."

Bruce couldn't bite back to whimper that escaped his lips completely as Brian dragged him towards the basement door. He reached up to dig his nails into Brian's arm, and whined lowly in exasperation when he realized that he'd chewed his nails to the quick. Suddenly, Bruce found himself being jerked away from his father and pushed protectively behind his mother's slim frame.

Rebecca Banner used her body as a shield between her husband and her trembling son. She gripped Bruce's side and shoved him behind her more firmly, obscuring as much of him as she could from Brian's sight. She said firmly, "You are not cutting him open again, Brian."

"I didn't realize you had a say," Brian snarled, gripping Rebecca's wrists and attempting to move her out of the way. "Get the fuck out of the way. I told you to wait in the living room."

"I'm done listening to you; you almost killed him last time," Rebecca insisted desperately, yanking away from Brian. She took a few steps back, pushing Bruce with her. "I'm not going to stand by and watch him die! He's you son, for God's sake! Don't you feel anything towards him beside this…this sick scientific detachment?"

"Don't lecture me about him," Brian sneered, advancing on his wife. Bruce gripped the back of his mother's shirt tightly between his shaking fingers. "You can't stand by and watch him die? What have you been doing for the past ten years? You've stood there and watched him get the shit beaten out of him for years without a word! Why haven't you stopped me?" He surged forward and tackled Rebecca into the wall of the dimly lit hallway, pinning her there by her upper arms. Bruce was sent crashing against the wall as well, crushed between the rough wood and his mother's back. Brian stared into Rebecca's eyes, his voice shaking slightly when he demanded again, his voice strikingly soft and fragile, "Why didn't you stop me?"

Rebecca shook her head silently, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She hesitantly touched Brian's cheek with the tips of her fingers and stroked the stubble running along his jaw. "I'm so sorry. But we have to leave."

Brian hung his head, breathing hard and not moving from where he had them trapped between his arms. Bruce watched his father carefully, unsure of whether he would let them go or grow even angrier. He got his answer all too soon when Brian's dark eyes flickered open again, and they were harder than they'd been before.

Bruce acted without thinking; he managed to dart out from behind his mother and hurl himself at Brian's knees, knocking the unsuspecting man to the ground. Brian let out a shout of surprise when he hit the ground, and Bruce struggled to his feet as quickly as he could. He gripped Rebecca's upper arms and shoved her towards the door. She just stared at him, frozen in surprise. He pushed her towards the door more insistently, glancing back to where Brian was struggling to untangle himself from the throw rug. "Go, Mom, go! Get out!"

She seemed torn, and for a fraction of a second, Bruce was sure she was going to refuse. Relief flooded though him when she grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the house behind her before Brian managed to get to his feet again. Bruce stumbled onto the front stoop after her and slammed the door shut behind him, hoping it would buy them a few seconds. A few moments later, a loud thud sounded against the other side of the door and Bruce heard his father scrabbling for the doorknob and cursing violently.

Bruce's heart leapt to his throat when the front door burst open and Brian appeared in the doorframe, red-faced in anger. Bruce took off towards the street where his mother was standing, holding her hand out to him and gesturing desperately for him to hurry up. His father's heavy breathing getting closer and closer with every step he took, and he pushed himself to run faster, despite the burning pain the freezing cold air left in his lungs.

A heavy weight suddenly fell on his back and he found himself being pinned to the ground by his father's broad frame. Brian's momentum caused them to slide a few feet through the slush and mud before they came to a stop. Brian hauled back and brought his fist down across Bruce's face, hard. He gripped Bruce's thick curls and shoulder, digging his fingers in until Bruce could practically feel bruises blooming under his hands, and hissed, "You think you can just leave? You think that after all I've done for you, after everything I've given you, you can both just LEAVE?"

Bruce's arms flew up reflexively to cover his face from his father's fists. Brian didn't seem to notice or care; he continued to hit Bruce relentlessly, over and over again, not caring what part of Bruce his fists made contact with.

Bruce curled into a ball to protect as much of himself as possible, gasping when he felt skin breaking and knuckle meeting bone. He struggled weakly, trying to get away, wondering desperately where his mother was and if someone had heard them, and blinking rapidly to clear his vision of tears and blood.

And suddenly, Brian was gone. Bruce scrambled to prop himself up, his elbows sliding in the mud and his vision obscured by tangled hair, dirt, and trickles of blood running from a split eyebrow. His mother had leapt onto his father's back and used her slight weight to throw Brian off balance and send him tumbling off Bruce. Brian fell to his knees and roared incoherently, scrabbling at Rebecca's arms for a grip to pull himself back to his feet. Rebecca screamed and scrambled desperately to keep from falling, thrown off balance by Brian's movement, but the slick fabric of her husband's shirt slipped through her fingers. Brian managed to catch her around the waist before she hit the ground.

Bruce froze with terror, his entire body feeling ice cold and heavy. Brian held Rebecca up for a moment, suspended above the ground, before his upper lip curled into a disgusted sneer.

"Brian, please," Rebecca breathed, her eyes flickering to Bruce for split second before returning to her husband's pleadingly. "Please."

Brian pursed his lips and adjusted his grip on her so he could lift her slightly before shoving her towards the ground with as much force as he could muster. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands, but couldn't block out his mother's shrill, terrified scream, a sickening crack, and then a long, suffocating silence filled only with the sound of his father's heavy breathing and his own choked sobs.

* * *

**I'll apologize for the cliff hanger right now. Hopefully I can get the next part up soon, because I have spent a lot of time on the next potion, so I'm excited to share it with you guys. **

**Let me know what you think, if you have a second. I really appreciate hearing from all of you:)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Next chapter! Sorry this took so long, I have been ridiculously busy and editing this took me longer than it should have. **

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: minor character death, violence, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, me trying to write hospital scenes, slash (sort of), and language.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_"__The night Bruce's mother died," Coulson began softly, setting his notepad onto the desk in front of him.. "You were there."_

_"Yes," Thor replied quietly, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. His tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, and he said, "I…I would have never wished that pain on anyone else."_

_Coulson watched as Thor struggled to control himself, a muscle in his jaw jumping._

Thursday night, Steve and Thor were sitting on the floor of Steve's bedroom surrounded by scraps of construction paper, glue sticks, and markers. They'd left their Chemistry project until the last minute, and it was taking longer than they'd expected; it had to be close to midnight. Thor was struggling to type up the information they'd hastily researched on Schrodinger, and Steve was working on getting what they had managed to write and print out so far glued onto their poster board.

Steve froze when a woman's scream pierced through the night air and tore through the room through Steve's half-open window. Thor was at his window in an instant, gripping the windowsill tightly and pushing the window the rest of the way open. He leaned outside, listening hard, and flinched when another scream cut through the air.

"What is it?" Steve moved to Thor's side. "Thor, where's that coming from, what is it?"

Thor didn't reply for a few moments, still listening. Police sirens wailed from across town, and Thor said lowly, "Something is wrong."

"I gathered that much," Steve raised his eyebrows and trailed after Thor as he larger man took off towards his bedroom door. "Thor, wait, I still don't—"

Thor whirled around and gripped Steve's shoulders tightly. He looked down at Steve with his normally bright eyes clouded and full of panic. Steve stared up at him, shocked and perplexed at the terror in Thor's facial expression. Thor said through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into Steve's shoulders, "Bruce's house. It's coming from the Banner's house."

"What-?" Steve's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "How can you-?"

Steve suddenly realized that the scream of the sirens was almost on top of them. He reached out and grabbed Thor's wrist to tug him out of his room and towards the stairs. Steve's parents were already in the foyer, hovering around the door and arguing lowly.

"—Banner's house," Sharon was hissing, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I understand that," Rick rubbed his tired eyes irritably. "What happens between them is their business. The police have been contacted, we have no right to interfere…"

Steve ignored his foster father's words, instead attempting to push by Rick to get out the door.

"Steve!" Rick snapped, grabbing Steve's arm tightly and pulling him back. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you," Steve replied. His blue eyes were hard and unyielding, and he met Rick's gaze, unwavering. "I'm sorry, but Bruce is my friend, and if something's wrong and he needs me...I have to help him."

Rick's mouth was set in a thin line and his grip on Steve's wrist tightened. He tugged Steve further away from the door and growled lowly, "You have no responsibility to—"

Thor hovered awkwardly behind Steve, unsure of what he was supposed to do with himself while they argued. The decision was made for him by Steve, who yanked the door open with his free hand and shoved Thor out onto the front stoop. He yanked his arm from Rick's grip and turned to face him, his expression stoic and his eyes flashing with anger and desperation. He said, his voice shaking almost imperceptibly with barely suppressed emotion, "I've stood by long enough and let him get hurt. Let me go."

He didn't wait for a response before he stepped onto the porch with Thor, snapping the door shut behind him. He turned to Thor, his expression still determined and somber, thin lines around the corners of his mouth. "Let's go."

* * *

When Thor was confronted with the scene in Bruce's front yard, his heart leapt to his throat and his stomach dropped. The front door of the small, ramshackle house was thrown open, almost torn off its hinges. Police cars were haphazardly parked in the street and driveway, and the yard was swarming with cops. A group of them was clustered around a woman's body lying in the grass and speaking quietly to each other, shaking their heads in resignation. Thor realized with a jolt that blood was pooling under the woman's head and soaking into the grass. She wasn't breathing.

"—for every time you laid a fucking hand on her, you bastard!" Thor almost didn't recognize the hoarse, torn voice as Bruce's, and looked around frantically for him, startled.

Steve nudged his arm and pointed towards the driveway, his voice low and shaky. "There."

Bruce was being physically restrained by two cops, but he was fighting valiantly to break free of the grip they had on his arms. His white shirt was stained with rusty spots of dried blood and splotches of dirt, and it hung off his thin frame in tatters. He was only wearing boxers, which gave a clear view of the bruises and small, round burns that littered his legs. Thor's stomach lurched when he realized the round marks were cigarette burns and that they dominated the inside of Bruce's thighs. His hair fell into his wild, furious eyes in a tangled, unkempt mess of curls. His torso was crisscrossed with thin red lines and thick, tight welts, and bruises shaped disturbingly like fingers painted his collarbone and hips.

Thor slipped his phone out of his pocket and sent Tony a text message, tearing his eyes away from Bruce for a moment.

**BRUCE'S HOUSE. EMERGENCY. MAKE HASTE.**

Bruce managed to jerk one arm away from one of the officers, but the other kept a solid hold on him. Bruce didn't seem to notice or care. He was too busy screaming at his father, who was being restrained on the opposite side of the lawn. "I hope you die, I hope you rot in hell, I hope they throw you in prison and you go through every single thing you put us through!"

"So you _can_ talk," Brian sneered, digging his heels into the slushy ground so the policemen had to struggle to get him to move. "Seventeen years and I was starting to worry you were actually mute, not just stupid."

"You know I'm not stupid," Bruce snapped angrily, his upper lip curling in disgust. "You could just never accept that I'm smarter than you are!"

Brian's grin dropped and he glared at Bruce, not trace of amusement in his features. "You're brave now, aren't you, you fucking freak? You feel safe surrounded by all these cops? Do you think they would want to protect you if they knew about half the things you've done, thinking it would save your mother? You killed her; she's dead because of you!"

A muscle in Bruce's jaw twitched at the mention of his mother and he visibly had to force himself not to look towards the front porch. "She deserved so much better than you!"

"She deserved better than both of us," Brian scoffed. "Look what she got for a son; a socially awkward freak. She's always been so disappointed in you. She's better off dead than knowing her son was a fa—"

"That's enough," one of the cops cut Brian off sharply and shoved his head down so he could force him into the backseat of a cruiser. "Get in."

Brian craned his neck to keep eye contact with Bruce and said lowly, threateningly, "Remember what I told you, Robert." The cop put a hand on Brian's head and forced him fully inside the car.

"I hate you!" Bruce yelled as the cop slammed the car door shut. "I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you, you sonofabitch…"

"Hey, kid, calm down," one of the officers grunted as both of them tried to drag Bruce farther away from his father and dead mother. "Calm down, he can't hurt you. He can't hurt you anymore."

The sound that escaped Bruce's chapped lips was somewhere between a mocking laugh and a choked sob. He glanced up and his gaze fell on his mother's lifeless form. The remaining faint color in Bruce's face drained from his cheeks. Bruce went limp in the officer's arms. They obviously weren't expecting it, because they lost their grip on him and he dropped in a heap to the ground. He managed to scamper away before they could get a hold of him again and broke through the knot of people around Rebecca Banner's motionless body. He dropped to his knees next to her and hesitantly reached out to touch her cheek. "Mom…"

The officers glanced at one another, exchanging significant looks in a brief moment of silent communication. One of them reached down to rest a hand on Bruce's shoulder comfortingly. Bruce flinched away from the touch, moving closer to his mother's body. "Son, why don't you come with us? We've got to ask you a few—"

"Please, no…" Bruce muttered, hunching over Rebecca and clutching her torn shirt tightly between his fingers. A low sob escaped his lips before he could stop it, and he pressed his face into her stomach. "God, please, no…please…please…"

Steve cleared his throat, but his voice still felt hoarse when he spoke. "Did you text message Tony?"

Thor nodded and took a step forward. "He is on his way."

Steve nodded shortly, his mouth set in a thin line. Thor's heart ached at the sight of Bruce, beaten and bloody, sobbing over his mother's body. Thoughts of the night his mother had been killed flashed though his mind, but he forced them back; he did not have time to deal with his own grief. Bruce needed help. He found himself moving towards Bruce, past the cops who halfheartedly tried to stop him, and didn't stop until he was at Bruce's side. He went down on one knee next to him and slipped off his jacket to drape the thick fabric around Bruce's bare shoulders. Bruce didn't acknowledge the gesture; he simply clung more tightly to his mother's body, choking on sobs he was desperately trying to repress.

Steve into a crouch next to him and reached out to run a hand through Bruce's hair soothingly. He cupped Bruce's cheek in his hand and tilted Bruce's chin so he was looking up at him. Bruce blinked when he saw Steve, recognition and relief that Thor hadn't been able to inspire flashing through his eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, Bruce's grip on his mother loosened and reasserted itself on the front of Steve's jacket. Steve helped Bruce to his feet carefully, minding the welts on Bruce's torso. Bruce stumbled forward, losing his footing and falling against Steve's chest, unable to support himself any longer. Steve tugged him closer, until he was nestled firmly against the curve of Steve's body, wrapped tightly in the bigger man's arms. Steve was just tall enough to rest his chin on the top of Bruce's head, and Thor was struck by the way Bruce seemed to just melt in to Steve's touch until they were holding each other so closely Thor almost couldn't tell which limbs belonged to who.

One of the cops lingering by Rebecca's body hesitantly moved towards Steve and Bruce, uncertainty flashing across his face as he watched them for a few moments. The young officer laid a hand on Steve's shoulder to get his attention. Steve glanced up at him, torn between ignoring the man and his innate reaction to acknowledge an authority figure. He cleared his throat and asked politely, "How can I help you, sir?"

"I think your…your friend needs to get checked out by the paramedics," the man suggested firmly, motioning towards the approaching ambulance. "He doesn't look so good."

Steve blinked blankly at the man for a few seconds, processing his statement, before nodding in agreement, his mouth brushing Bruce's thick curls. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'll get him over there." Bruce shuddered and gripped Steve's shirt more tightly, pressing his face against Steve's chest and choking back sobs. Steve's hand moved to rub the curls at the base of his neck soothingly, in an effort to calm Bruce down. "I…he just needs a minute."

The cop nodded understandingly and moved away to rejoin the group gathered around Rebecca's body.

Thor glanced up in time to see Tony's car skid to a halt in front of Bruce's house. He parked in the middle of the street and flung the door open, stumbling out before he even managed to come to a complete stop and not bothering to shut his door behind him. He must have been awake when he'd gotten Thor's message, because he was still wearing the jeans and t-shirt he'd worn at school earlier that day. His eyes immediately went to Bruce's shaking form being held tightly in Steve's arms and he made a beeline for his best friend, disregarding the cops trying to talk to him. Tony came to a stop next to Steve and Bruce, his eyes wild with panic. He relaxed slightly when he saw Bruce was breathing and moving and alive, and reached out to set a gentle hand on Bruce's back, sucking in a deep breath as he took in the amount of damage on Bruce's body. He pursed his lips and ran his fingers through Bruce's dark curls soothingly, noting how Bruce was clinging to Steve like Steve was the only thing holding him together. Tony let out a low sigh and cursed lowly under his breath, "Damn it."

Bruce shuddered and pushed himself closer to Steve, whimpering softly and choking on a sob. He was muttering something Thor couldn't make out, and he was crying so hard Thor was sure he wouldn't be able to breathe. He seemed confused as to where he was and what was happening, and he simply held onto Steve and mumbled brokenly into his chest. Tony didn't remove his hand from Bruce's back, but shifted closer, as it to offer Bruce more protection from the pitying gazes of the officers. Tony lifted his eyes to Steve's face and said softly, "He needs to get to the hospital."

Bruce shrank away from Tony at his words, shaking his head and digging his fingers into Steve's shirt. He whimpered softly, "Please, no…"

Thor was stunned by the fragility in Bruce's voice and his inability to from coherent sentences. It was clear, however, that Bruce needed medical attention. He was shaking and bleeding and covered in bruises and burns; Thor was impressed that he was still standing.

Steve pursed his lips into a thin line and gently rubbed his thumb in soothing circles over Bruce's skin. "You're hurt."

Bruce didn't reply. Thor couldn't see his expression because his face was pressed into Steve's chest, but he saw the drop of Bruce's shoulders as he reluctantly gave in. Steve readjusted him so he could support Bruce on one side, and Tony immediately moved to grip Bruce's other arm to help.

Bruce didn't uncurl his fingers from Steve's shirt for a long time, and he stood looking up into the taller man's face, swaying slightly, before he ducked his head and blushed with shame. "You…you…you'll be there?"

Thor's stomach dropped at the note of genuine fear in Bruce's voice. Bruce didn't ask for help, Bruce didn't allow himself to be vulnerable; his defensive walls were crumbling. He could see Steve's Adam's apple bob in his throat when he swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain calm and keep his voice even. "Yeah. Of course."

"We'll be there the whole time," Tony assured him softly, squeezing his waist gently. Bruce glanced up at his best friend and nodded ever so slightly, looking reassured, but still sick at the thought of the hospital. With a careful nudge from Tony, Bruce managed to make his way towards the ambulance, leaning heavily on Steve.

The cops around Rebecca Banner were taking notes and speaking in low voices, and a new group of people had shown up, probably to move her to the morgue. Thor's stomach rebelled and he had to will himself not to be sick in front of everyone.

_"…hospital…"_

_"She's already dead, what's the point?"_

_"Thor, who did this? Which way did he go? Thor. Thor. THOR!"_

"Thor!"

Thor started, jolted back into the present, to the mucky lawn soaked with blood, and found himself looking down at Steve. Steve eyed him with concern for a moment before jerking his chin towards his house. "Tony's going with him. We'll meet them there."

Thor nodded and trailed after Steve towards his house, the wailing sirens splitting through his skull and leaving a dull ringing in his ears.

* * *

_"There are some notes on your record from your doctor in the ER that night," Coulson tapped his pen against his notebook. "He wrote that you were covered in bruises."_

_Bruce shrugged, unconcerned. His voice was still mildly hoarse when he said, "I told you, I get knocked around at school sometimes."_

_Coulson pursed his lips doubtfully. "He didn't seem to think that was true."_

_Bruce shrugged again and tugged his sleeves down over his hands. He didn't reply, instead chewing nervously on his bottom lip. _

_"He wrote that he suspects that your father was the reason for them," Coulson continued. Bruce didn't visibly react. "You don't have to lie for him anymore, Bruce."_

_Bruce shook his head. "I'm not lying."_

Bruce set his jaw, not allowing any sound of pain to escape his lips as the doctor cleaned one of the deeper gashes that curled over his shoulder. He tightened his grip on the edge of the table until it was painful, glad for the distraction, for the presence of a pain he could control.

Doctor McCoy raised an eyebrow when Bruce didn't flinch from the sting of the antiseptic. He was almost finished with disinfecting the wounds, and so far, none of them needed stitches. He just had to bandage Bruce up and take a look at the mess of burns on his inner thighs. The kid would be pretty damn sore for a while, if the extensive bruising was anything to go by, but he should physically recover fine.

The injuries were obviously consistent with severe beating and prolonged physical abuse. Hank steeled himself for the never-quite painless conversation he had to have with the poor kid.

"How were things at home before this?" he spoke up softly, careful to keep his attention focused on his hands where they were moving to clean the next abrasion.

Bruce shrugged, tensing when it strained his injured shoulder. He cleared his throat and replied hoarsely, his voice ragged as if he'd been screaming, "Fine. I…my dad just lost his job, so things have been a little weird, but mostly…fine."

Hank hummed softly, pretending to be satisfied with the answer. "So there's been a lot of stress lately on you?"

Bruce glanced up for a moment and shrugged again. He replied guardedly, "I don't know."

"You have to understand my concern here, Bruce," Hank paused in his ministrations for a moment so he could look directly at Bruce, hoping to convey an aura of openness and support. "Some of the injuries you have a consistent with abuse."

Bruce fixed him with an inquisitive expression and his mouth twisted into a frown. "Abuse?"

Hank returned to his work, gently guiding Bruce to sit back a little farther so he could get a look at the burns on his shins. Hank titled his head to the side and replied, "Yes. Physical abuse. How was your relationship with your father?"

"Normal," Bruce replied, his expression betraying nothing but honesty. His cheeks were streaked with dried tear tracks and his eyes were shining, but he seemed to be holding back the tears threatening to fall as he spoke successfully. He cleared his throat and continued, "I mean, we argued, sure, but doesn't every kid and their dad? You can't seriously be asking if he…he would never…"

"I have some questions I'm required to ask when I see something like this," Hank said softly, not believing Bruce for a second. He glanced down at the mess of burned skin on the inside of Bruce's thighs; his stomach sunk when he realized the burns disappeared under the fabric of the hospital gown he'd been given. He reached for the burn cream he'd had the pharmacy run down and squeezed some of it onto his fingers.

Bruce sat up abruptly and reached out for the tube. "I'll do it."

"Are you sure?" Hank asked doubtfully. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but it might be painful for you to—"

"It's fine," Bruce replied shortly, squeezing some of the cream on his own hand. He carefully applied it to the afflicted areas, starting at his knees and working his way up.

Hank turned to the desk in the room in order to give him some privacy and find the papers he needed. When he turned back, Bruce was leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and looking like he was about to fall asleep right on the examination table.

Hank pulled the chair from the desk and sat down across from Bruce, so they were almost at eye level with each other. Bruce's pupils followed him when he moved, which was a good sign; definitely no concussion. He tapped his pen against the page in front of him and began gently, "Listen, I'm required to run through these questions for everyone who comes in here under rough circumstances. Don't be too stressed about it, alright?"

Bruce nodded warily, dropping his hands into his lap and leaning forward. His hair fell into his eyes in a tangled mess of curls, partially obscuring his face from view. Hank took that as acceptance, and moved on to the first question. "Are you afraid of your father?"

"No," Bruce replied firmly, his voice giving nothing away to suggest the contrary.

"Has he ever hit you?"

"No."

"Has he threatened you, or your mother?"

"No."

"Did he ever threaten your mother to get you to do something he wanted?"

"No."

"Do you feel safe with your dad?"

"Of course I do," Bruce glared at Hank and frowned. "This is a waste of time. I'm telling you, this wasn't my dad."

"Did you do it to yourself?" Hank asked, his voice sharper than he'd intended it to be. He knew the answer already, it would have been physically impossible for Bruce to do most of the damage to himself, but he figured he'd give Bruce a break from the questions about his father.

"No," Bruce snapped irritably. He reached up to rub at his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in a deep breath. "No. It wasn't him, and it wasn't me. It's fine."

"It's fine?" Hank repeated, trying and failing not to sound incredulous. "You're telling me you consented to being hurt like this?"

Red crept up Bruce's neck and he said thickly, "That's none of your business."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Hank asked, glancing down at the sheet in front of him and noting the odd response in the margin. "Or a boyfriend?"

"I don't have to answer that," he said quietly, but there was no venom in his tone, just weariness.

Hank cocked an eyebrow at the papers in front of him and sighed softly, letting the topic drop for the moment. "Has anyone—your father, your significant other, anyone at all—ever touched you inappropriately?"

"No," Bruce said firmly, looking as if he would rather be doing anything else besides having that conversation. His knee bounced impatiently and his dark eyes flickered to the door intermittently.

Hank bit his bottom lip and set the papers aside, his heart sinking. The kid wasn't going to open up, he wasn't going to admit what was going on, and he was going to get put right back at home with his dad if his dad managed to convince a judge it had been some kind of accident. The possibility he was covering up for his girlfriend or his boyfriend was remote; Hank was positive that it was his father who was responsible. "Then I guess I'll finish bandaging you up and you can go meet your friends in the waiting room. Social services is sending someone down to figure out your living situation for now."

Bruce nodded and allowed Hank to begin wrapping bandages around the hand shaped bruising and abrasions on his forearms.

* * *

_"The night his mother died," Coulson prompted Natasha. "How would you describe his behavior?"_

_Natasha stared at him incredulously. "He saw his mother die. He was upset, obviously."_

_"Hmmm," Coulson hummed quietly. "Upset."_

_Natasha blinked at him, perplexed. She crossed her legs and folded her hands together on top of her thigh, commenting lightly, "You seem surprised."_

_ "Not surprised," Coulson corrected her. "Interested. He hasn't proven himself overly emotionally demonstrative."_

_ Natasha pursed her lips and shrugged one shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly with suppressed anger. "He was extremely shaken up."_

Natasha paused halfway down the stairs when she heard her aunt's voice in the kitchen. She leaned over the railing to eavesdrop, perking up when she heard Bruce's name being mentioned.

"…still qualified foster parents," Alyona was saying into the phone, digging through the papers on the table in the hall, searching for something. "We had to be approved to adopt Natasha…I suppose if it's temporary it shouldn't be a problem. She seems very fond of him; they go to school together." She was silent for a few moments. "Oh, no, that'll be fine. We can be there to pick him up in fifteen minutes. Thank you. Yes. It's no problem. See you there. Goodbye."

She placed the phone back in its cradle and selected a blue folder from the stack. Natasha took the chance to plod the rest of the way down the stairs loudly, as if she'd just been making her way downstairs and hadn't been hovering there a moment ago. "What's going on?"

"Seems there's been an incident down at the Banners' house," Alyona replied, moving to grab her jacket from the coat hooks on the wall of the hallway. "He needs a place to stay, and his social worker is a friend of mine. Since we're approved foster parents, and you seem so fond of him, I figured you wouldn't mind if he stayed for a while."

"What happened?" Natasha's heart leapt to her throat and she reached into her pocket for her phone immediately, checking it for messages. It had been on silent; she had eight text messages from Thor, Steve, and Clint, and two missed calls from Clint. She opened Steve's messages, expecting him to have given the most useful, pertinent information, and wasn't disappointed.

**Bruce's mom died. His dad is under investigation. We're at the hospital, and Bruce is being looked at, but he should be fine. **

"Oh my god," she breathed, tremors running through her fingers as she stared at the screen. "Oh my…"

"Come on, Natalia," Alyona clicked her tongue and pushed the door open, stepping to the side to give Natasha space to get by. "I told them we'd be there soon. He's been cleared to leave the emergency room. It may do him good to have you there."

Natasha grabbed her jacket and rushed out of the house after her aunt, dialing Clint's number to fill him in.

Natasha was three steps ahead of her aunt on the way into the hospital. The automatic doors opened for her and she glanced down at her phone again, uncertain of where Steve, Tony, and Thor would be. She didn't see them at first in the hectic waiting room of the ER, but she spotted them after a moment in the corner of the room opposite the entrance. Tony was pacing impatiently, his hands clenched into fists at his sides and his mouth set in a thin, angry line. Steve was hunched over on one of the benches, his chin propped in his hands and his eyes of the door that led deeper into the ER. Thor soot up from where he'd been plopped down next to Steve and met Natasha halfway across the waiting room.

She immediately barraged Thor with questions, her voice higher than usual with panic, "Where is he? Is he okay? How badly was he hurt? What happened to him? Where is-?"

"He will be fine," Thor interrupted her, gripping her arms in an effort to calm her down and ground her. Natasha shut her mouth and stared up at Thor expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. He sighed and went on, "His mother was pronounced dead at the scene. His father is being brought to the jailhouse. Bruce is…he went back into the offices sometime around an hour ago. They will not tell us anything."

The door to the ER was pushed open to reveal a young man in scrubs supporting a tired, beaten Bruce with a cautious grip on his bicep. Tony was at his side in a second, sliding an arm around Bruce's waist to take over from the doctor in offering him support. Bruce sagged against Tony and allowed him to help guide him to the bench, where he dropped down next to Steve. Steve made no move to touch Bruce, but leaned into the smaller man's personal space to ask him something softly.

The doctor glanced around the room, his eyes lingering suspiciously on Steve for a moment, before he saw Alyona making her way towards him. He held out his hand, and introduced himself, "Hi, ma'am. I'm Doctor McCoy. Are you Alyona Romanoff?"

"I am," she took his hand and shook it firmly, her gaze flickering to Bruce for a split second. "What is the physical damage, Doctor?"

"Mainly some pretty painful bruises," McCoy took the clipboard out from where it was tucked under his arm and flipped through the pages, scanning them quickly. Natasha peered around Thor's shoulder, trying to catch what the doctor was saying. She watched Bruce out of the corner of her eye; she couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like Steve had taken his hand as he spoke. "He's covered in them, as well as some welts and abrasions. Burns that look like they were made by a cigarette are covering portions of his skin, mostly his thighs and the soles of his feet; I have a prescription for some cream for that. He's thin; ideally, he should weigh about fifteen pounds more than he does right now. He shows signs of physical exhaustion, and I recommend you keep him out of school for the week. He needs to rest." The doctor lowered his voice, and Natasha had to strain to hear. "I'm not a psychologist, but it's clear that he's…hurting. He's tight-lipped about exactly what happened, and he's angry about it, but I would recommend you have him set up with a therapist through the school or something. He needs to talk to someone about this."

"Of course," Alyona nodded, taking the slip of paper the doctor handed her. She tucked it into her pocket. "Thank you, Doctor. Is he okay to go home now?"

"Yeah, I think it's a good idea to get him settled in as soon as possible," McCoy nodded. "If you have any questions, just call the hospital and ask for me; they'll give you my extension. Good evening."

He tilted his head to Alyona and turned to head back into the hallway he'd come from. Alyona squared her shoulders and approached Bruce and Steve. Steve put a few inches of space between himself and Bruce, and Natasha could have sworn his hand had been covering Bruce's a few moments before. Tony's eyes narrowed and followed Alyona as she advanced on his best friend, but he didn't speak, apparently allowing Steve to handle the situation for the moment.

Alyona came to a stop in front of Bruce and held out her hand. She fixed him with a solemn gaze and said, "I don't believe we've met in the years you've known Natalia. I'm Mrs. Romanoff."

"Bruce," Bruce hesitated, as he was almost afraid of the touch, before taking her hand warily. "Banner. Nice to meet you."

"You'll be staying with us until they manage to figure out this whole nasty business," Alyona said briskly. "Should we stop by your house on the way by to pick up your things?"

Bruce shook his head quickly, rubbing at his eyes irritably. "I…I don't have anything."

Tony's eyes closed for a moment. He cursed under his breath and sucked in a short breath. "I'll get you some clothes and drop them off tonight. Don't worry about anything else, I'll take care of it."

"That's very kind of you," Alyona scrutinized Tony with mild surprise, as if she was reevaluating what she'd said about him earlier. "I think it would be best if we got you back to the house. You look like you could do with some sleep."

Bruce nodded reluctantly and pushed himself to his feet. Steve stood as well, resting a steadying hand on Bruce's back. Bruce cleared his throat and asked hoarsely, "I…my mom..? She's definitely...?"

Alyona nodded, pursing her lips sympathetically. Bruce swallowed noticeably and ducked his head, looking sick. Steve and Tony exchanged a glance over his head and Tony immediately took over, moving to Bruce's side and reaching for his hand. Natasha had seen them do this more times than she could count. Tony laced their fingers together and allowed Bruce to lean on his shoulder; Natasha supposed it was an effort to offer not only physical support, but wordless emotional support as well.

"How much pain is there?" Tony asked him softly, helping him stay on his feet as they made their way towards the entrance to the parking lot.

Bruce's shoulders were tense, the muscles bunched up into tight knots under the flimsy fabric of the hospital issued shirt they'd given him. When he spoke, he stuttered, unable to articulate the panic and uncertainty swirling around in his dazed mind. "…I…I can't…I can't…"

"Hey, it's alright," Tony assured him, squeezing his hand tightly. "It's alright, Bruce. Don't freak out. It's okay. Just breathe, alright? You can't just opt out of breathing; that's my thing. You know I don't like people taking my things."

Bruce nodded stiffly, not smiling, but relaxing slightly at Tony's weak attempt at humor. Natasha watched him with concern; she'd known that Bruce had panic attacks, bad ones, but she'd never witnessed one herself.

At the car, Bruce seemed reluctant to let Tony go. His fingers curled into the hem of Tony's shirt and he leaned against the side of the car for a moment, loathe to release their grip. Tony gently untangled his hand from the fabric and stepped back, forcing a small smile. "I'll drop by later with some stuff. Call me if you need anything, alright? I mean it."

Bruce nodded wordlessly. He tore his gaze from Tony to look up at Steve, who was hovering over him with concern written across his handsome features. He stood closer to Bruce than Tony had, almost so he was curled protectively over the smaller man. When he saw Bruce looking at him, he pursed his lips into an empathetic frown and ducked his head, uncertain of what to do. "I, uh…same here. If you…if you need someone, I mean."

"Thank you," Bruce said, so quietly Natasha almost didn't catch it. Their faces were inches apart, and Natasha was sure for a second that Steve was going to kiss him. Instead, after a moment of tense silence, Steve nodded shortly and straightened up. "I'll go help Tony. We'll be over as soon as we can."

"Promise?" Bruce asked quietly, looking up at Steve with dark, clouded eyes.

Steve forced a small, reassuring smile and replied sincerely, "Promise."

Bruce nodded, looking slightly more assured, and turned from him to slide into the back seat.

* * *

Tony haphazardly threw a few of his t-shirts into the half-full duffle bag, glancing up at the clock on his bedside table. He and Bruce were about the same size, give or take, and there was no way he was going to make Bruce go back into his own house to get clothes. He glanced around the room for a few moments, trying to think of anything else that Bruce might need.

In the end, he tossed in two empty notebooks, the thick, soft blanket that Bruce used whenever he stayed over, and a pair of battered sneakers Bruce had left at his place a few weeks ago.

He glanced over his shoulder when his bedroom door opened to reveal his father's silhouette in the doorway. He set his jaw and turned back to the bag, zipping it up and hefting it onto his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going?" Howard hissed, flicking on the overhead light and stepping into Tony's bedroom. "It is two in the morning." He did a double take when he realized Tony was fully dressed. "Did you already go out tonight?"

"I need to drop this off for Bruce," Tony replied tersely, coming to a stop a few feet from his father and looking up at him, determination flickering through his eyes. "Something happened. He needs help."

"And he just expects you to run out and do whatever he wants at a moment's notice?" Howard demanded, scrubbing his hands over his burning, tired eyes. "Go back to bed, Tony. You're not his personal assistant."

"I am his friend," Tony snapped irritably. He didn't have time to deal with his dad's shit; he was tired, he was worried, and he was scared as hell that Bruce was going to break down. The fine cracks in his façade had been growing progressively more and more noticeable in the past few months, and Tony was afraid that this would be the thing to shatter it completely. "And I just have to drop off some clothes for him. It's not a big deal; I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

"You're not going," Howard repeated firmly, his upper lip curling. "I have to be awake for a meeting in three hours, Anthony; I don't have the time to deal with you right now. Get back to bed."

"Well that's nothing new," Tony snorted. He attempted to dart around his father and slip out the door, but Howard grabbed the strap of the bag and yanked him back into his before he could escape into the hallway. Tony jerked the bag out of his father's hand and glared at him, snapping sharply, "Let me go."

"Do not make me lock you in your room," Howard threatened lowly. "I won't have you running around town in the middle of your night. We have rules, Tony, and you are expected to follow them, or there will be consequences."

"I don't care!" Tony's voice rose with every word, until he was almost yelling at his father, unable to keep the anger from coloring his tone. "I'm not going to ditch him when he needs me because you suddenly decide to take an interest in me!"

"Suddenly?" Howard repeated incredulously. "I have always done what's best for you, you've never wanted for anything—"

"You're wrong," Tony cut him off coolly. "You did what you thought was best for me, but the one thing I really wanted was something you never bothered with."

He strode out of the room and snapped the door shut behind him, leaving his father standing in the center of his bedroom alone, staring after him and frozen with confusion and shock.

* * *

Tony stormed out of his house and yanked open the passenger side door of Steve's truck, mumbling angrily to himself and cursing out his father under his breath. He tossed the bag into the center of the bench seat and climbed in after it, slamming the door shut behind himself. He glanced back at the front door of his house, gritting his teeth, and commanded tersely, "Go."

Steve glanced at him out of the corner of his eye with concern, but complied without saying anything. He pulled away from the curb and drove in the direction of Natasha's house, his grip on the wheel so tight his knuckles turned a milky shade of white.

* * *

Natasha tugged nervously on her bottom lip, scrutinizing Bruce's slumbering form with concern. She and Alyona had only managed to get him to couch before he had all but collapsed. Alyona had suggested he move upstairs to the guest room, and Bruce had lifted his gaze to the stairs, looking like he wanted to curl up and die. Natasha had assured her aunt that he would be fine for the night, and Alyona had begrudgingly left them to go and explain the situation to her husband.

Bruce slept curled up on his side, his head pillowed on one arm, and his other arm curled around his waist protectively. His hair had been scrubbed clean at the hospital as well as the nurses could manage, and the damp curls fell across his face, hiding some of the more severe bruising from Natasha's view.

He slept as if he was never going to wake up again. The unbidden prospect made Natasha's stomach grow cold, and she was relieved when he twitched slightly at the knock on her front door. He shivered slightly and curled up into a smaller ball under the thin blanket Alyona had given him.

She uncurled from the chair to get up and answer the door. Tony pushed by her without being invited inside, his gaze fixed on Bruce's slumbering form over her shoulder. Steve smiled sheepishly from where he paused on the front stoop. In the dim light of the porch, his skin looked washed out and pale, and the circles under his eyes looked particularly dark. She stepped aside and held the door open for him. "Come on in."

"Thank you," he nodded gratefully and stepped inside, bee lining for Bruce the moment his gaze fell on Bruce's unmoving form. Natasha turned to follow him into the living room, pulling the door shut behind her. Tony stood at Bruce's feet, looking down at his friend with a mixture of emotions Natasha never would have suspected Tony was capable of mingling in his expression.

Tony dropped the bag onto the floor and unzipped it to pull out a thick blue blanket. He tossed it over Bruce haphazardly before kneeling down next to the bag to look for something else. Steve tucked the corners of the blanket around Bruce's shoulders. His hands lingered for a moments, ghosting through the thick, damp curls at the base of Bruce's neck, and he chewed anxiously on his bottom lip.

"I have to get home," Tony spoke up softly, running a hand through his hair. His eyes darted around the room nervously. "My dad was pissed. I told him I'd be back in fifteen minutes."

"I should head home, too," Steve agreed, reluctantly stepping away from Bruce. "I haven't called. They'll be upset."

"Thor made it home alright?" Natasha asked, the realization that Thor had disappeared suddenly occurring to her. She felt bad that she hadn't noticed before; everything seemed to be happening so quickly, that night seemed like a blur.

"I dropped him off," Steve said, nodding. "His family was waiting up for him."

Tony sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, hunching his shoulders slightly. "Seems like tonight just sucks."

"That's an understatement," Steve said quietly, chewing on his bottom lip and contemplatively watching the uneven rise and fall of Bruce's chest.

* * *

**So there it is! I hope you all liked it, even if it was a little slow in some places. **

**Let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, you guys have no idea how great it is to hear from you. So thank you:)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Next chapter! Thank you all so much for your support! Your reviews keep me going:)**

**So we're about halfway done. This is kind of a filler, but hopefully next chapter I can pick things up. Trust me, it definitely picks up soon, I have plans for these characters. **

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: slash, language, past self harm, mentions of depression, mentions of abuse and rape, Ross being an unbalanced douche (the usual).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Clint stared blankly at Bruce's empty desk on Monday morning, tapping his pen against his lip absentmindedly. Natasha had mentioned Bruce was supposed to come back that day, just in time for the end of Spirit Week and Thor's last football game. He wasn't sure if Bruce would want to go, but Tony insisted that it would be good for Bruce to get out of the house for a couple hours. Clint was less certain; Bruce didn't do well in large crowds, especially not when he was upset, and the last thing he needed was more stress.

When Bruce didn't show up that period, Clint figured he'd decided to take another day. Clint couldn't fault him for it; for the past week, Bruce had done nothing but deal with distraught relatives and cops questioning him about that night. Clint still wasn't entirely sure what had happened. Tony glared at him when he asked and told him it wasn't any of his damn business. Steve had said softly that he wasn't comfortable discussing it without Bruce there. Thor had told him as much as he could, but Thor didn't tell stories in a linear fashion and tended to get distracted, so he had given a very disjointed account of what they had seen, at best.

He sat down across from Natasha at the lunch table, setting his lunchbox down in front of him on the table. She glanced up from her math homework and nodded in greeting.

He managed to keep himself from asking for about forty five seconds before blurting out, "Where's Bruce?"

"In the guidance office," Natasha replied without looking up from her math homework. "Xavier wanted to talk to him before he attended classes again."

"How's he been?" Clint asked softly.

Natasha sighed shortly and closed her book. She pursed her lips and considered a moment before replying, "He has nightmares, when he does sleep. Most of the time he doesn't even bother. Every time Rick walks in the room, Bruce finds some excuse to leave. He barely eats anything."

Clint bit the inside of his cheek and nodded shortly, turning his sandwich over in his hands. "What does he need to help?"

Natasha pursed her lips and shook her head helplessly. "I don't know. Space. Time." She paused for a moment. "Us."

Clint shrugged and smiled at her warmly. "Well, we've got his back, right?"

"Yeah," Natasha agreed, the corner of her lips twitching slightly as her eyes flickered over Clint's face. "We've got his back."

* * *

Thor picked unenthusiastically at the sandwich in front of him, a deep ache in the pit of his stomach. He took a bite, but immediately regretted it; he felt like he'd taken a bite out of a cardboard box, and it was almost impossible to swallow. He set the sandwich back down on the table and pulled a face, disgusted.

"Not hungry?"

Thor looked up from the table and came face to face with Natasha. He moved his backpack off of the table so she could take the seat across from him and set her lunchbox on the table between them. He shook his head and replied softly, "Not particularly."

Natasha pursed her lips and dug into her lunch box for something. After a few long moments, she spoke up. "It's hard seeing something like that happen to someone else."

He didn't have to ask who or what Natasha was talking about. Thor swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably, and picked at the crust of his sandwich. "I wouldn't ever wish it on another."

Natasha nodded in silent agreement. She waited a few moments before inquiring, "When's your next game?"

Thor shrugged and dropped his gaze to the tabletop. "I am not entirely certain. I may not be participating. I have missed a considerable amount of practice."

"Are you sure you're alright, Thor?" Natasha asked quietly, her bright eyes meeting his steadily.

Thor forced himself to smile. "Of course. I am simply tired. I have had a lot of work lately."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, indicating that she wasn't buying Thor's words at all. She pushed a bag of crackers towards Thor, offering them silently. Thor felt sick just looking at them, but hesitantly reached out and plucked one from the bag. He didn't miss the flash of satisfaction in her eyes when he popped the cracker into his mouth and forced himself to chew and swallow, despite his rolling stomach.

* * *

Bruce swallowed hard, his throat dry and his stomach rebelling against the half a bowl of oatmeal Alyona had practically force-fed him that morning. Principal Xavier was doing that uncomfortable thing where he stared without speaking, looking like he understood everything running through Bruce's head, and Bruce hated feeling like his mind was being picked apart.

After a long time, Xavier broke the silence. He met Bruce's gaze solemnly and asked, "How have you been coping?"

"Alright," Bruce replied. He winced inwardly when his voice cracked from disuse. He cleared his throat and continued carefully, "I…I think it will help to get back to classes. Some normality."

"Your father's pre-trial is tomorrow, isn't it?" Xavier asked, his sharp eyes flickering over Bruce's face. The bruises had mostly healed, but splotches of dark skin still marred his jaw and cheeks. He bit back a sympathetic wince; even after all the years that had passed, he could still recall being constantly covered in bruises. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.

Bruce nodded, tangling his hands together in his lap and cracking his knuckles nervously. Xavier scrutinized him closely. "Are you testifying?"

"I have to," Bruce said tightly. His gaze darted from the floor to meet Xavier's for a moment, holding his gaze steadily as he spoke. "I was there. I'm not going to let him get put in prison because my mother tripped."

"Ah, yes," Xavier steepled his fingers under his chin and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "So you've said. The police, however, seem to think differently."

"They're wrong," Bruce said simply, something in his dark eyes daring Xavier to argue.

Xavier sighed softly and dropped his hands to his desk to rearrange some of the papers in front of him. "I have been at this school for a long time, Mr. Banner, but I have very rarely come across someone who lies quite as well as you."

"I appreciate the compliment," Bruce smiled wearily, a sharp edge to the grin. "But I'm not lying."

Xavier pursed his lips doubtfully. He "Whatever he threatened you with, Bruce, I promise that if you tell the police what he's done to you, what he did to your mother, he'll be locked away for the rest of his life. He can't hurt you."

"He didn't do anything wrong," Bruce repeated stoically.

Xavier nodded, looking slightly disappointed, but not refuting Bruce's statement. "Just know that you can talk to any of the teachers here if you…if something changes. We just want to keep you safe."

"The safest place for me to be is with him," Bruce replied steadily, an undercurrent of honest belief in his voice that shook Xavier to the core. "And he's innocent."

* * *

Bruce clutched his t-shirt and sweatpants against his chest and ducked into one of the shower stalls in the locker room, praying silently that Ross wouldn't notice him. He hadn't felt the older man's eyes on him when he'd walked in, and Ross hadn't given any sign he'd seen him, but Bruce couldn't help but be a little wary of him.

Not just because Steve wasn't there.

He could damn well take care of himself; he didn't need Steve to be his guard dog.

However, he had to admit to himself that Steve's steady and protective presence did feel good despite his own ability to handle himself.

He jumped when the curtain was torn open, and clutched his shirt to his chest, gripping the fabric tightly between his fingers. Ross raised an eyebrow and stepped inside, jerking the curtain closed behind him. Through the crack between the ceramic wall and the plastic curtain, Bruce saw the last of Ross's lemmings scuttle out of the room, leaving them alone in the deserted locker room.

"I heard you were coming back today," Ross grinned widely, making no move to get closer to Bruce, but hovering over him threateningly. Bruce pushed himself against the wall, pressing his back against the cool tile despite the shots of pain it sent through his body. "I missed seeing you around. This place isn't half as entertaining without a pretty thing like you around to woo."

"This is wooing me?" Bruce said incredulously, hoping his panic didn't edge into his voice. Since that night, he could feel his control slipping, feel himself losing the tenuous grip he'd managed to keep on his anger and betrayal, and fear that left him paralyzed and sweating when he woke himself up from nightmares. "Cornering me in a shower stall, groping me in the hallways, telling me what you want me to do for you in explicit detail, this is wooing me?"

"I use the term loosely," Ross admitted, his grin growing sharper. He stepped closer to Bruce, still not touching him, but forcing Bruce to crowd into the corner of the showers and glare up at him defiantly. "But it's what I am trying to do, Bruce. I like you. Is that a crime?"

"Liking me is not a crime," Bruce agreed tensely. "Harassing me is."

"You're throwing around some pretty weighty words now that your dad's out of the picture," Ross frowned at Bruce disapprovingly. "What are you going to do, report me? We both know you don't have the balls to go through with it."

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but froze at Ross's next statement. "You would just lie about it anyway. You'd protect me the same way you're protecting your father."

"I'm not protecting him," Bruce said coldly, his heart beating faster in his chest. "It's not a lie. Move out of the way."

"I saw what happened," Ross hissed, closing the distance between them and shoving Bruce against the wall before he could escape. His mouth was so close to Bruce's that their lips brushed. "I heard her screaming from next door."

Bruce's chest heaved against Ross's and he met the larger man's gaze, trying to keep his expression impassive and cold. Ross's knee pressed between his thighs, forcing his legs apart and rubbing the fabric of Bruce's jeans against the burns. Bruce gasped ad shifted uncomfortably, struggling in vain to find a less awkward position. Ross grinned darkly and patted Bruce's cheek lightly. "I'm sorry for your loss. You know what could take your mind off it?"

"Fuck you," Bruce spat, digging his fingernails into Ross's chest and scraping at the skin of his arms, desperate to get out of that small, suffocating space. His vision was white with anger and he had to force himself not to physically lash out. "How about you get the fuck away from me and get your fucking hands off me, you disgusting, perverted sonofabitch!"

"I like you better when you're too fucking terrified to talk," Ross muttered, frowning disgruntledly and shifting to get a better hold of Bruce's hips.

Bruce managed to slide down the wall enough to get an angle to slam his knee into Ross's crotch, but the curtain flew open again before he could.

Steve stood in the opening of the shower, his arms crossed over his chest and glaring threateningly at Ross. He demanded angrily, "What the hell are you doing?"

"We were just having a conversation," Ross said innocently, releasing Bruce and smiling innocently. Bruce sagged against the wall for a moment and pressed his hand to his chest, trying to get his breath without obviously inhaling huge gulps of air. "No need to freak out about it. He just wanted to talk."

"I don't think he wants anything from you," Steve snarled, indignant at Ross's innocent, blameless attitude when he'd just been pinning a panicked, scared seventeen year old against the wall in a the shower stall of a deserted locker room. "The man told you no."

Ross stormed out of the shower, pushing Steve out of his way and striding towards the gym door. He paused at the entrance to the gym and called over his shoulder. "I'll catch you later, Bruce."

Steve ignored him, turning his attention to Bruce, who still stood in the center of the shower stall, half clothed. Steve bit his lip and said softly, trying to get Bruce to snap out of his daze and focus on him, "Bruce."

Bruce started and his eyes focused on Steve for a moment. He blinked a few times and pulled on his shirt again, tugging the fabric to hide the bruises covering his torso. He cursed softly when he realized it wasn't his gym shirt and started to take it off again, but Steve gripped his wrists, stilling his hands. "Wait a minute. I was thinking we could take a walk."

"During class?" Bruce glanced warily at the door to the gym. "I…I've already missed over a week…"

"Don't worry about it," Steve assured him, holding open the shower curtain and letting Bruce step through before him. "We'll be back by next period."

* * *

Steve led the way to the cleared path that ran around the outdoor fields, his boots sloshing through the muck the melting snow left behind. Bruce plodded along next to him, his gaze darting around the fields and the snow-covered trees with interest, as if that was the first time he'd ever seen them.

"Where are we going?" Bruce broke the silence of the deserted field, wrapping his arms around himself and rubbing his upper arms in an effort to generate some warmth.

"Just trust me," Steve turned around to smile at Bruce. He noticed the shudders running through Bruce's thin frame and pulled off his sweatshirt to press it into Bruce hands. "Here, take that. I don't need it."

Bruce pulled the sweatshirt on gratefully, shoving his hands into the pockets. He looked up at Steve and stopped walking for a minute, casting his gaze back towards the school. "I'm not sure if this is a good—"

"Don't worry," Steve cut him off, smiling a little bit. "I promise, it's okay, Bruce. You're stressed right now, Logan will understand if you need some time. Don't worry."

"Don't worry?" Bruce repeated faintly, mildly incredulous. His lips curled into a sarcastic grin and he picked up his pace to fall into step with Steve again. "Wow, if only I'd known that anxiety could be immediately alleviated by a few words of wisdom." Steve cocked an eyebrow at him, a little shocked at his sharp tone. Bruce wasn't looking at him; he was staring at the ground determinedly, a small frown fixed on his face. Steve regarded him closely, noting the purple bruise-like circles under his eyes and the still puffy red skin around the healing scratched on his cheek.

They walked together in companionable silence again for a few minutes, before Bruce asked softly, "Do you remember her?"

"Who?" Steve asked, glancing down at Bruce.

Bruce shrugged and a light blush spread through his cheeks. He ducked his head and muttered, "You mom, I mean. I mean, never mind, it's none of my business…"

"It's fine," Steve brushed off his stuttered apology. "I don't mind." Steve dug his hands into his pockets and continued quietly, "I mean, what I remember of her is mostly from after she got sick. I…she used to take me to church on Sundays, even when she first started to feel sick. It was…it was nice. I wish I still…I wish I went as often as I used to."

"My mom was always into that, too," Bruce admitted quietly, scuffing his boot over the ground. "I could never…not with my dad..."

Steve sometimes forgot that Bruce's mom had been religious. He'd seen her at the church fairly frequently, all warm smiles and gorgeous, curly hair that fell to the hem of her flowing skirt and offers to help with washing the dishes after coffee. Bruce didn't bring it up much, but Steve had watched him struggle with the spiritual teachings his mother had imparted on him and the cold facts of science and nature his father had insistently pressed on him since he'd been very young.

He reached back and unclasped the silver chain from around his neck. He paused and reached out for Bruce's hand. Bruce flinched away from the touch reflexively, paling slightly. He paused for a moment, visibly forcing himself to calm down, and set he jaw. He cleared his throat and muttered, turning to face Steve again, "Sorry."

Bruce hesitantly held out his hand again, offering his palm up to Steve. The skin of his palm was littered with scabbed over abrasions and his fingernails were ragged and cracked. Steve cupped Bruce's hands in his own and pressed the small silver cross into his calloused palm. Bruce opened his hand and looked down at it, stricken. He swallowed hard and asked quietly, "What are you doing?"

"When she died," Steve explained self-consciously, clasping his hands behind his back. "My dad gave me that. It was his. She…she'd given it to him, I think, and he gave it to me." He paused for a moment, a lump forming in his throat and making it difficult to speak. "He didn't really know how to help me, he wasn't ever good with feelings, but when he gave me that I realized that he…that he wanted to be." Steve ducked his head and shrugged, red coloring his cheeks. "It's stupid, I'm sorry."

"It's not stupid," Bruce said softly, closing his fingers around the pendant. The sharp corners of the cross dug into his palm. He reached out to take Steve's hand and give it back. "Here."

Steve hesitated for a moment, and Bruce's stomach dropped. It felt like Steve was offering him something, something important and comforting and terrifying, and Bruce wasn't quite ready to make that kind of decision. He didn't feel like he'd ever be ready to make that kind of decision. He tried not to look relieved when Steve took the chain back and clasped it back around his neck again.

Steve gave Bruce a lopsided smile and motioned towards the school. "We should probably get back."

"We shouldn't have left," Bruce pointed out, unable to keep his lips pursed into a frown. The smiled felt unfamiliar and awkward on his face, but Steve seemed satisfied nonetheless.

"Yeah, well," Steve shrugged innocently. "Clint and Tony have corrupted me, and now I'm dragging you down with me."

Bruce gave a short, soft snort of laughter and rolled his eyes.

Steve nudged his shoulder against Bruce's as they walked towards the school, adding more sincerely, "You looked like you needed a minute."

Bruce nodded reluctantly, loathe to admit that Steve was probably right. He "Thanks."

"What are friends for?" Steve shrugged one shoulder. The corner of his lips quirked upwards in a reassuring smile, and Bruce suddenly felt more off kilter than before, yet, in stark contrast, more solidly grounded and in control. He quashed the feeling the moment it began to spread through his chest, picking up his pace towards the back doors of the building, determinedly pretending not to notice the warm brush of Steve's fingers against the back of his hand.

* * *

Natasha bit the tip of her tongue and worked through the vicious cramping in her hand as she managed to write the last sentence of her history essay. She tossed the pen aside and set the book and notebook on her bedside table before flopping back onto her mattress, exhausted. She'd gotten out of rehearsal later than usual, and she'd had a ton of homework to finish when she'd finally gotten home. She glanced at the clock, groaning softly when she saw it was midnight.

She stared up at the ceiling, trying to work up the energy to slide under her comforter and finally go to sleep. She had just managed to peel back the covers when a loud crash came from the next room.

She leapt out of bed and darted into the hallway, where Alyona and Rick had already emerged from their room, bleary eyed and frantic. Alyona rubbed the sleep from her eyes and demanded hoarsely, "What happened? Are you alright?"

"It was from the guest room," Natasha replied quickly, striding down the hall without stopping to talk any longer. She flung the door open and flicked the light on.

The lamp that had been on the bedside table was on the floor, its glass base shattered into countless shards and slivers. Bruce was on the floor as well, tangled in the thin sheet and mumbling incoherently as he struggled to throw off the linin.

Natasha stepped over the glass and knelt down next to Bruce, resting her hands on his sides carefully. His sides were still bruised and tender, so she was very careful when she rolled him onto his back to move him away from the shards of glass. Bruce flailed out violently when she touched him, just barely missing her cheek with his fist. She shook his shoulders and snapped gruffly, "Bruce. Bruce. It's alright, you can wake up, you're safe. Bruce!"

Bruce's eyes flickered open and darted around the room frantically until they found Natasha's face. Confusion crossed his expression and he gasped, "Natash…Natasha?"

"Yeah, you're at my house, remember?" she asked softly, letting go of him so he could untangle himself from the blankets and sit up. He crossed his legs and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees, rubbing at his eyes frustratedly. His chest was heaving, as if he was having difficulty breathing, and Natasha's heart leapt to her throat when she realized he might be having a panic attack. She waited a few moments before she inquired hesitantly, "Are you okay?"

Bruce nodded, forcing himself to steady his breathing and calm down. He was shaking, hard, and violent shudders ran through his thin frame. Natasha caught sight of the sleeve of a sweatshirt hanging off the edge of the bed. She tugged it off the mattress and handed it to Bruce, who, instead of putting it on, bundled it into a ball and hugged it to his chest, pressing his nose into the thick, worn fabric. Bruce let out a deep breath and replied hoarsely, "I'm fine. I just…I didn't mean to…" he blinked at Natasha and his expression fell. "Oh, God, did I hit you? I'm so sorry, I didn't, I wasn't, I panicked and—"

"Don't insult my reflexes, Banner," Natasha's lips quirked into a bare smiled and she stood up, holding out her hand to Bruce. Bruce hesitantly took it and allowed her to help him to his feet. He let go immediately, hugging the sweatshirt to his chest. Natasha caught of glimpse of the logo in the low light spilling in from the hallway; it was the Army logo she was so used to seeing Steve wear. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Are you going to be okay? Do you need something?"

Bruce shook his head, red creeping up the back of his neck. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I woke you all up. I didn't think…"

"It's not a problem," Alyona assured him, smiling warmly. "Rick will just pick up that glass and you can go back to sleep. You look tired."

Bruce tensed at the mention of Rick, his fingers digging into the thick fabric of the sweatshirt. "Okay. I…I'm going to run to the bathroom."

He darted around Alyona and skittered down the hallway, ducking his head and slinking against the wall when he passed Rock on his way by. Rick frowned at Bruce, bemused, but didn't comment. He exchanged a look with Natasha, who shrugged helplessly and watched Bruce duck into the bathroom, pressing the sweatshirt to his mouth and blinking back tears of panic.

* * *

Tony bit back a wince when Bruce's iron grip on his wrist tightened painfully. He followed Bruce's gaze to where Brian Banner was sitting next to his lawyer, flanked by two officers and his hands cuffed behind his back. Brian's sharp gaze flickered around the room every couple of minutes until he found Bruce, and his lips turned upwards into a small smile that made Tony want to throw something at him. When Brian looked at him, Bruce's fingertips dug into Tony's arm until he was sure they'd leave bruises. He turned to ask Bruce to loosen his grip, but the words died on his lips when he saw that Bruce looked like he was going to be sick. Tony dropped his free hand on top of Bruce's and squeezed his fingers briefly.

Tony didn't bother to pay attention to what the judge was saying, or what any of the state appointed attorneys were bitching about. He watched Bruce watch his father, noting the fear and resignation flickering behind Bruce's dark, troubled eyes.

He started when Bruce tugged away from him and stood up. Bruce made his way to the witness stand with his head ducked so his thick curls hid his face, and determinedly not meeting his father's gaze. He slid into the chair and rubbed his hand over his mouth nervously, his eyes flickering up to look at his father's lawyer.

Emil Blonsky stepped out from behind the podium and leaned on the edge of the empty jury box, giving Bruce a warm, reassuring smile that oozed confidence.

Tony resisted the urge to cross the room and punch the guy in the face.

"Please state your name for the court," the Blonsky said, grinning at Bruce darkly.

"Br—Robert Bruce Banner," Bruce replied. Tony was struck by how steady Bruce managed to keep his voice when his hands had been shaking so hard moments ago. It never failed to amaze him (and piss him off) that Bruce could look completely put together while he was having a complete mental breakdown.

"Do you know the defendant?" Blonsky asked, motioning towards his client. Brian quirked his eyebrow slightly at Bruce, almost mockingly, but his expression remained stoic.

Bruce ran his tongue over his bottom lip and nodded, replying softly, "He's my father."

"And, from your personal observations, can you give us an idea of how your father and mother interacted?" Blonsky asked, glancing up at the judge. The judge wasn't looking at him; his eyes were fixed on Bruce.

Bruce shrugged and said, "They've always had a pretty…normal relationship, I guess. I don't…I'm not sure what you want to know, exactly."

"Did he, to your knowledge, ever hit her?" Blonsky clarified, raising his voice slightly, irritated that the judge wasn't looking at him.

Bruce didn't even flinch. He shook his head politely, looking for all the world like he couldn't understand why Blonsky would ask him something like that. "Hit her? He would never."

"And, to your knowledge, did her ever beat her, or act emotionally abusive towards her?" Blonsky asked. The prosecutor opened his mouth to object, but Blonsky cut him off before he could, amending his question quickly, "Only from your own personal observations."

Bruce nodded slowly, chewing on his bottom lip. "I…no, he's never done anything like that. He loves…he loved her."

Bruce's voice cracked when he corrected himself, and Tony wasn't entirely sure he was acting anymore.

"And did he ever beat you, abuse you emotionally, or touch you inappropriately?" Blonsky asked. Brian Banner straightened up in his seat slightly, his dark eyes fixed on Bruce. Bruce's gaze flickered up and caught his father's briefly; Tony hoped like hell that the judge didn't miss the way Bruce went three shades paler.

"No," Bruce replied steadily.

"Now, if I could turn your attention to the night of November 21st," Blonsky smiled smugly and exchanged a fleeting look with Brian. Tony balled his hand into a fist and bit down on his knuckles, not yielding when he tasted blood. This was what Bruce wanted. He had no right to interfere (that alone usually didn't stop him, but this was Bruce, this was important), and he didn't want Bruce pissed at him for stepping in where it wasn't his business. Bruce had enough to worry about without Tony undermining him. "Was there anyone else outside that saw what happened that night?"

"No," Bruce said, swallowing hard. "Only me and him."

"Can you describe what happened?" Blonsky asked.

"My mom was upset about…something," Bruce ran a hand through his hair, pushing the wild curls off his forehead. "And she stormed outside. She said…she said she was going to do some errands and calm down. She was walking too fast, and she stepped on the patch of ice at the end of the walkway and she…she didn't catch herself in time. Her head…her head hit the…the curb and it… it was too late by the time the ambulance showed up."

Blonsky nodded silently, his gaze flickering between Bruce and the judge. "One more question, Robert, and then you can go. Did your father push her? Did he kill her?"

Tony's breath caught when Bruce hesitated for a moment. Blonsky's hand tightened on the wooden partition he was leaning against, but he kept the strained smile on his face. Brian leaned back in his chair and ducked his head to hide the small, victorious grin tugging at his lips. Bruce swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing notably, and said softly into the microphone, "No. He didn't kill her."

* * *

Tony tightened his arm around Bruce's waist, the judge's words still ringing in his ears.

_See no need for this to proceed to trial…based on his son's testimony…charges dropped…_

Bruce hadn't spoken since he'd stepped down from the witness stand. Tony had managed to coax him to make his way into the front hall of the courthouse, but Bruce didn't seem to be aware of what he was doing. He stumbled after Tony down the hall until they came to a stop by the front door and just sagged against Tony's side, staring down at the floor, but not seeing it. His fingers curled into the front of Tony's shirt, and Tony could feel Bruce's chest heaving unevenly against his ribs. Tony looked down at him with concern, startled by the waxy color of his skin. "Bruce, hey, calm down. Do you want to go? Let's go, alright? You don't have to go with him."

"I just lied under oath," Bruce stuttered, his breath uneven and broken. "I lied, I just fucking committed a crime for that bastard…why…why..?" Tony's heart clenched at the helplessness laced through Bruce's desperate tone. He began to reply, but paused when one of the doors on the opposite side of the hall opened.

Brian Banner strode out into the front hall, beaming at Bruce and rubbing at his wrists where the cuffs had cut into them. Bruce immediately detached himself from Tony's side and put a respectable amount of difference between them, because God forbid his father saw him holding onto his male best friend for support.

Brian approached them both and swept Bruce into his arms, pulling him into a tight hug. Bruce froze, his eyes going wide with shock. Brian kissed the top of Bruce's head, pressing his lips into his tangled curls, and squeezed Bruce gently, muttering, "God, I missed you so much, I'm so sorry, Robert, I am so sorry…" Bruce shifted uncomfortably in his father's arms, uncertain of how to respond. Brian just held him closer. "You are so good, Bruce, you are so good. It must have been hell for you, losing her, and I wasn't there to help…I'm so sorry."

Bruce managed to wiggle out of his father's grip. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, looking as confused as Tony felt. "I…it's okay. It's not…it's alright."

Brian bit his bottom lip and gazed down at Bruce, his eyes shining with tears. He nodded stiffly and wiped his hands across his eyes. "Okay. Okay. I…we should get home. I've missed sleeping in my own bed, I'm sure you do, too."

Bruce nodded and allowed Brian to grip his upper arm and steer him towards the front door. Brian suddenly stopped and turned to Tony. He smiled warmly and Tony shivered imperceptibly. "Thank you, for taking care of him these past weeks."

"It's no problem," Tony replied, dropping his gaze from Brian's face to Bruce's. Bruce was looking up at his father with a mixture of confusion and apprehension in his expression. "He's my best friend."

Brian's eyes flicked from Tony's face to his feet, and he seemed to see Tony for the first time. He inclined his head towards Tony and smiled a little bit. "Have a good night."

Tony watched them go, a cold, heavy feeling in his stomach.

* * *

_Coulson scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flickering from Bruce's medical files to the man himself watching him warily from across the desk. "Listen, I'm not going to insult you by pulling out a doll and asking you to show me where your father touched you. Let's just make this easy on both of us. Did he ever touch you inappropriately?"_

_"No," Bruce said, shaking his head. _

_Coulson raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Your medical records say you came in with injuries consistent with sexual assault about a year ago."_

_Bruce's gaze dropped to the ground and he cleared his throat. "It wasn't…my dad never touched me. What happened…it wasn't rape."_

_"So you wanted to get torn up so badly you needed internal stitches," Coulson commented doubtfully. He felt a small thrill of victory when discomfort crossed Bruce's face, just for a second. "Is that what you're saying? The blood, the bruises, the bite marks, the marks around your wrists, those were all consensual?"_

_Bruce nodded without hesitation and said quietly, "I said yes."_

"I heard you were back."

Bruce straightened up so fast he slammed his head against the hood of his dad's truck that he'd been leaning under only moments before. He whirled around and found himself face to face with Ross. He clenched the wrench in his hand and leaned back against the car, taking a deep breath to calm his heart rate. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you come out here," Ross replied, motioning to the path between the side door of the Banner's house and the detached garage. "I was surprised."

"Yeah, well," Bruce grunted, turning his back on Ross and returning his attention to the oil pump of the truck. When his dad had gotten back, his truck had refused to start, and Brian had sent Bruce out to figure out what was wrong with it. He wanted it fixed before the funeral. "Here I am."

Ross was quiet for a few moments, just watching Bruce work. When he spoke, he sounded slightly incredulous. "You know what you're doing there?"

Bruce rolled his eyes at the engine and snapped irritably, "Of course I do, it's a car engine. I've worked on things much more complicated than this."

Bruce heard Ross shifting uncomfortably behind him, but didn't turn to look at him. He hunched his shoulders and waited for the insults, and slurs, the suggestive comments, but they didn't come. Instead, the words that came out of Ross's mouth were much worse.

"It's been a year, you know."

Bruce dropped the wrench. It landed inside the hood with a loud clang, and Bruce cursed under his breath. He gripped the edge of the hood and demanded quietly, anger simmering in his tone, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Ross shrugged innocently and looked down at Bruce, exasperation clearly written across his features. "It happened a year ago. I don't get why you're still so pissed. I've been trying to apologize for a year; I've been trying to show you that I'm serious about this."

Bruce held up a hand, conveying that he didn't want Ross to take a step closer. He repeated, incredulous, "What the hell is wrong with you? Apologize? Apologize?! Terrorizing? Yes. Sexually harassing? Definitely? But apologizing? You've got a pretty fucked up way of apologizing."

"I didn't mean to do that to you," Ross snapped, anger creeping its way into his tone. "I was drunk; everyone at that party was drunk. I couldn't control myself. I liked you, I've always liked you, and I thought…"

"Don't give me that bullshit," Bruce said lowly, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. "You knew what you were doing; I told you no, I tried to push you off me, I tried to scream…" Bruce's voice broke and he ducked his head for a moment, taking a deep breath to collect himself. When he spoke again, his voice was firm and steady, "Until you stop treating me like a piece of meat and take some responsibility for your actions, I don't have to listen to a word you say."

Ross rolled his eyes and advanced on Bruce, crossing the garage in a few long strides. Bruce snatched up another wrench from the workbench next to him and held it in a loose fist at his side, ready to defend himself if he had to. Ross stopped a few inches from Bruce and said uncertainly, "You never told anyone."

"Natasha knows," Bruce muttered softly. He paused briefly, considering, before continuing, "I don't want…I don't want people to know."

"Good move," Ross nodded shortly and smirked a little, but was unable to muster the usual cold confidence behind it. "I guess by now you know that if you do tell anyone, I'll make sure the cops find out what really happened that night."

Bruce swallowed hard and clutched the wrench tightly, feeling sick to his stomach. "Leave."

"What?" Ross raised an eyebrow skeptically, mildly amused. "You think I'd do it again?"

Bruce pursed his lips and nodded stiffly, not loosening his grip on the wrench.

Ross sucked in a deep breath and nodded in reluctant understanding. "Okay. Alright. I'll go, I guess. I'll see you at school."

Bruce eyed him warily as he turned and made his way out of the garage and back to his own house next-door. He turned back to the truck and set the wrench back down on the bench with shaking hands, before gripping the edge of the hood to support himself, his chest heaving unevenly.

* * *

_"I see that your mother recently filed to get you back," Coulson said, fixing Clint with a look full of sad understanding that pissed Clint off. _

_"I turn eighteen in a few weeks," Clint replied shortly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a frown at the mention of his mother. "By the time Barney can leave, I'll be old enough to take him with me."_

_"If the court grants you guardianship," Coulson pointed out. "You'll barely be nineteen. It might be difficult, especially with a record."_

_Clint swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably, and shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. "Only vandalism. It was just a couple pranks; people blew them way out of proportion."_

_"That wasn't what I meant," Coulson smiled mildly. "It's a crime to lie to the police in this city."_

_Clint cocked an eyebrow. "I don't see how that affects me."_

_"You don't?" Coulson repeated, smiling innocently. "Well, if it comes out (and trust me, it will) that Banner is a murderer, and we find out that you lied for him, I'm going to have to charge you for it."_

_Clint narrowed his eyes at Coulson. "Good thing I'm not lying then."_

_Coulson pursed his lips into a thin smile, trying to hide his irritation. "Good thing."_

Clint couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a church. His mother had been religious before she'd fallen off the wagon and turned to alcohol instead of God for help, so he assumed that he'd been at some point in his youth, but nowhere near often or recent enough to remember when to stand or kneel. He followed the lead of the people around him, watching Bruce out of the corner of his eye.

Bruce didn't seem to know when to stand or sit any more than Clint did (or maybe he just didn't care), because he stayed where he was, hunched over at the end of the pew. Tony was sitting in the pew next to him and stretched his arm across the wooden back of the seat, not touching Bruce's shoulders, but close enough to offer some sort of comfort. Bruce looked almost as bad then as he had the night his mother had died; Clint attributed it to being back at home with his father. There were no new visible bruises, but he knew from experience that not everything that hurt a person left a physical mark.

The service for Rebecca Banner was brief and not well attended. Brian Banner was nowhere to be seen, but Clint had no intention of bringing it up with Bruce. Earlier that day, Bruce had mumbled something about not knowing most of his mother's family because his father had forbidden it, and the sight of the ten or twelve other people in the church made Clint's stomach clench. None of them had seemed to know which person Bruce was when they had arrived.

The final notes of the closing hymn echoed off the high ceilings of the church as the closed coffin was rolled out the side doors towards the cemetery by four men Clint assumed had to be Bruce's cousins.

Clint didn't follow the small procession out to the graveyard. Rebecca's parents waited by the door and made to take over Tony's position at Bruce's side as they passed. Tony glared at them, tugging Bruce closer to his side. Clint almost thought he heard Tony growl a little bit. Bruce shot him a tired, half hearted glare, but made no move to pull away from him.

"Tony's gone into overprotective mother mode," Natasha commented softly, shifting in the seat next to Clint. Steve ran his tongue over his bottom lip and watched them go, clutching the small silver cross around his neck in his palm.

"I don't understand," Thor said. "Tony is not even a woman, let alone a mother."

"Don't worry about it," Natasha's lips curved into a reluctant smile. She looked up at Steve, her eyes lingering on his fingers were they toyed with the crucifix. "Are your parents still out of town, Thor?"

"They are away for the weekend," Thor nodded. "Why?"

"I'm starving," Natasha replied simply. "Clint is always hungry, and I'm sure you and Steve could eat. Bruce hasn't eaten in three days. I doubt he wants to go out today for lunch, and I don't think it's a good idea for him to go home tonight. Usually I would suggest Tony's place, but, somehow, I don't think his dad would be thrilled."

"Of course," Thor agreed, nodding. His solemn gaze trailed across the windows of the church until they rested on the small knot of people in the center of the graveyard.

* * *

Natasha set her empty plate on the coffee table in front of her and flopped back onto the couch, stretching her arms out above her head. Clint batted her hand out of his face and continued to shovel the pasta Thor had made into his mouth enthusiastically. Bruce had barely touched his food, and it worried Natasha slightly; she hadn't seen him eat much since his mother's death, and he could barely afford to skip meals. Steve had lent him a pair of jeans he'd had in his truck and Thor had given him an old t-shirt, so he'd be more comfortable than is he'd has to wear dress clothes from the funeral all night. He was sitting cross-legged in the center of the opposite couch with Steve. Steve kept throwing Bruce furtive, concerned glances, trying and failing to be subtle about it. Tony had disappeared a few minutes before to grab something from his car, calling vaguely over his shoulder that he was going to 'liven things up'.

"What does that mean?" Thor asked, intrigued. He sat up a little straighter in the armchair and stared at the door Tony had left though with interest.

"You probably don't want to know," Bruce replied quietly, a grimace briefly crossing his lips.

He rolled his eyes when Tony came back into the room toting a bottle of amber liquid and announcing, "We're playing Never Have I Ever."

"Are we also twelve year old girls?" Bruce inquired, flopping back over the arm of the couch.

Tony jabbed him in the side as he walked by, smirking when it elicited a small yelp of surprise. He blinked innocently at Bruce and set the whiskey down on the coffee table. "Can you please for once try to overcome the very fiber of your being and not be a killjoy for ten seconds? It'll be fun, and we've got nothing else to do."

"I'm in," Clint dropped onto the cushion next to Natasha form where he'd been perched on the back of the couch. She frowned at him slightly, but didn't move away.

"I guess," Natasha agreed begrudgingly. It wasn't as if they had much else to do anyway, and it couldn't hurt to do something stupid and pointless for the night. She needed a break; they all did.

Steve watched Tony gather six glasses from the cabinet on the side of the room, his expression betraying his confusion. Natasha saved him the embarrassment of having to ask. "Basically what happens is we go around in a circle, and each of us says something like 'Never have I ever been on a plane' or 'never have I ever had a pet', and if anyone has done it, they each take a drink. Except the questions are usually decidedly more sexual than that." She shot Clint and Tony an accusatory glare.

Steve raised his eyebrows and glanced back at Bruce, perplexed. Bruce gave him a lopsided smile and shrugged. Thor grinned and reached for a glass. "I think that sounds enlightening. I look forward to getting to know you all better."

Natasha was pretty sure she saw Bruce flip Tony off behind Steve's back; judging by the shit-eating grin on Tony's face, she was right. Tony poured a small amount of liquid into each glass and handed them out. "Alright, it's settled then. Who wants to start?"

"I will!" Clint bounced up and down in his seat excitedly, gripping his glass in both hands.

Steve swirled his whiskey in his glass, slightly hesitant. Bruce stared into his glass for a long moment before tearing his eyes away to stare at the floor, slightly paler than before. Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, concerned. She'd always known Brian Banner was a douchebag, but if Bruce's reaction was anything to go by, he was an alcoholic douchebag.

She sucked on her bottom lip and contemplated coming up with a way to give him an escape, but Clint spoke before she could think of anything. "Never have I ever had to wear clothes to cover a hickey."

Predictably, Tony took a drink. Natasha wasn't surprised. She was a little taken aback, however, by Bruce sipping from his glass. Clint grinned widely at Bruce, impressed. "Betty?"

Bruce shrugged and smiled a little bit behind the rim of his glass, and Natasha could almost see him begging to be let out of there.

"Your turn, Tony," Clint said, throwing his arm over the back of the couch behind Natasha's shoulders.

Tony grinned his eyes flashing with amusement. "Never have I ever been on a date."

"You've never been on a date?" Thor asked, surprised.

Tony shrugged and scrubbed his hand across his mouth. "I mean, not a real one, like, dinner or a movie or anything like that. Just…just sex, pretty much. I have Bruce to do everything else with, he's much more interesting."

"I'm flattered," Bruce said flatly, taking another drink. Steve's expression darkened slightly at Tony's words, and he frowned as he took a sip of the whiskey.

Thirty minutes later, Natasha knew a lot more about Thor's past conquests and Clint's ex-girlfriend than she wanted to, and she was pretty much ready to fall asleep on Clint's shoulder. Bruce had had to refill his glass, as had Tony, and Steve was watching Bruce each turn with increased interest.

"N'vr have I e'vr…" Clint slurred, searching for something they hadn't come up with yet. His head lolled onto Natasha's shoulder and he grinned up at her dopily. "Slept with a guy." He blinked innocently. "Tash?"

She rolled her eyes and didn't take a drink. Clint's questions had been growing narrower and narrower every round in an attempt to get something out of her, but he'd apparently decided to forget about tact and just go for it. She was about to ask her question when she noticed Tony (no shocker there) take a drink, and Bruce hesitantly raise his glass to his lips.

Tony looked just as shocked as she felt when he noticed. Steve, who hadn't had much to drink at all, set his mouth into a thin, impatient line, and asked Tony and Bruce snappishly, "Is there something going on between you two that you haven't told us?"

"What?" Tony blinked at Steve, shocked. He shook his head and stared at Bruce, as confused as the rest of them. "No, we're not…he's my best friend." He cocked a skeptical eyebrow and Bruce and added, "I thought he was anyway…"

"What, I have to tell you everything?" Bruce said sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're not my goddamn caretaker, Tony."

"I wouldn't have to be if you took care of yourself," Tony snapped back, rising to his feet.

Bruce laughed shortly and stood up as well, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Kind of ironic that you're talking to me about being reckless. You dragged me through hell two years ago when you decided you didn't care anymore, so don't you dare start lecturing me on taking care of myself!"

"We agreed not to talk about that," Tony said, his voice dropping and a wounded look flashing through his eyes. "I just want you to tell me what the fuck is going on with you lately."

"There is nothing going on!" Bruce shouted back, his voice verging on hysterical. He turned from Tony and buried his hands in his hair. "Stop asking me what's wrong because I don't know."

"Stop," Tony said softly, and his voice was as soft and serious and tender as she had ever heard it. It was almost surreal, seeing the way Tony handled Bruce with so much compassion. If Steve looked at Bruce like it was his singular mission to see Bruce feel safe enough to smile, Tony looked at Bruce like he wanted nothing more than to reach inside his mind and pull out the jumbled mess fear and anxiety that kept Bruce from being able to relax. He crossed the room and gripped Bruce's wrists tightly, holding on firmly and waiting to speak until Bruce reluctantly met his sincere gaze. "Just…just stop. You think too damn much, and it's killing you."

Bruce tugged out of Tony's grip to scrub his hand over his mouth and ducked his head, hiding his face with his hair.

Tony bit the inside of his cheek and hesitated a moments before his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "Who was it?"

"What?" Bruce glanced up, his eyebrows drawing together.

"You slept with a guy," Tony waved his hands in the air vaguely. "Who was it?"

Bruce's shoulders tensed and he took a step towards the door to the hallway. He retreated from the room, muttering, "I need some water."

Tony flopped back onto the couch and groaned loudly, arching his back and stretching his arms over his head to crack his back. He plopped back into his seat and pointed at Steve accusatorily. "Don't tell me it was you, Blondie. You always struck me as the wait for marriage type."

"It wasn't," Steve said softly, his warm blue eyes following Bruce out of the room and tugging his lower lip into his mouth between his teeth. "I…he's never mentioned…you didn't know?"

"He never told me anything," Tony shook his head, his dark eyes glazed. He suddenly looked unbearably tired. He sighed and pressed his arm over his eyes. "I…I mean, it wasn't me, or you, or Thor..?" Tony peered out from under his arm at Thor, who shook his head slightly, meeting Tony's gaze with a heavy sincerity that seemed to weigh down his shoulders. Tony pursed his lips. "And Clint's way too straight…"

Steve's expression darkened and a muscle in his jaw jumped. He pushed himself to his feet, slightly unsteady but still able to walk (which was more than Natasha could say for herself). "I'll be right back."

* * *

Tony stumbled down the hallway towards where he could hear Natasha mumbling something to Clint in the living room, hanging onto the wall to keep himself upright. He'd managed to make it halfway to the bathroom before he'd promptly thrown up on the (thankfully) tiled floor. It hadn't taken long to clean up, but he'd had some difficulty navigating himself into the shower to rinse himself off. He'd given up on trying to get his long sleeve undershirt back on and just pulled on his damp t-shirt.

His foot caught under one of the hall rugs and he pitched forward, losing his balance. He flailed out to catch himself, but found himself being pulled back to his feet before he could hit the ground.

He found himself face to face with Thor. He smirked gratefully and easily brushed off Thor's hands, patting him on the chest. "Nice catch, Point-Break."

Thor looked down at him with clouded eyes, clearly confused by the reference, but smiled nonetheless. "It's no trouble. It is fortunate that I…" Thor suddenly trailed off, his expression growing pensive, and Tony followed his gaze to his forearms.

Tony cursed under his breath and crossed his arms self-consciously, trying in vain to hide the translucent scars there and feeling suddenly horribly sober. Through the fog in his mind he'd completely forgotten about the scars. That thought made his stomach lurch pleasantly, but it sank quickly when Thor reached out as if he was going to touch the scars.

He jerked back from Thor's hand, glaring at him harshly. "Don't."

"You did that?" Thor asked softly, his eyes still fixed on the scar decorating Tony's arms.

Tony rolled his eyes and snapped, irritated with himself for letting this happen, for letting himself be exposed like this, "Yeah, I did. A long time ago. I'm better now."

"Better?" Thor asked, tearing his gaze from Tony's arms to meet his gaze. "I do not understand. How..?"

"I went through a rough patch," Tony growled, hating how uncomfortable he felt when he was distinctly trying to force himself to remain calm and casual. Thor still stared at him with confusion in his eyes. Tony sighed and continued snappishly. "I was messed up and felt like shit and I needed some way to feel again. I was sick and the doctors told me I didn't have a lot of time. I…I got a little reckless. I talked to someone, I take some meds, it's no big deal." He sucked in a deep breath and continued, punctuating each word with a jab of his finger, "_I. Got. Better._ It was a low point, I'm not proud of it."

Thor still just stared at him blankly without replying. Tony cleared his throat impatiently. "I…I should go check on Bruce."

He stepped around Thor and steadily made his way towards the living room. He could feel Thor watching him leave, feel his eyes back on his forearms, and he ducked into one of the side halls, deciding abruptly that he needed to find something with long sleeves before he could face anyone else that night.

* * *

_Steve toyed with his keys absentmindedly, glancing up at Bruce where the smaller man was curled up in the chair across from him. Bruce's eyes were blank and distant, and his fingers were tugging at his bottom lip nervously. Steve could see his hands shaking._

_He cleared his throat and said softly, "Come here for a second?"_

_Bruce blinked and refocused his eyes on Steve, his expression weary and troubled. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and slowly unfolded himself from the chair, biting back a wince when he jarred his fresh injuries. Steve scooted over on the couch to give Bruce a little more room, not wanting him to feel crowded and overwhelmed. _

_Bruce carefully lowered himself onto the cushion next to Steve, much closer than Steve expected; his stomach squirmed pleasantly, and he couldn't help the small, tired smile that tugged at his lips. He bumped his knee against Bruce's gently, trying to get his attention. "How's it going?"_

_Bruce hummed softly, noncommittally, and kept his gaze trained on the floor. "You don't have to protect me."_

_"Of course I do," Steve said softly, slightly hurt. "I—"_

_"Don't," Bruce's hand moved to grip Steve's thigh tightly. His fingers dug into Steve's thigh. "Please don't."_

_Steve chewed on his bottom lip and said quietly, "Everyone is saying you're dangerous."_

_"I am," Bruce muttered, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. "There is something wrong with me."_

_"There's something wrong with everyone," Steve contested, dropping his hand to cover Bruce's where it was still resting on his thigh. _

_Bruce's fingers twitched under his, but he didn't pull away. He swallowed hard and shook his head, his thick curls falling over his forehead in tangles. "It's different. I can't be…I'm not…you can't fix me."_

_Steve watched him struggle with his thoughts for a moment, clearly close to tears, before Bruce choked, "My mom used to say that someday how I felt would change, that someday I would just wake up and be magically better, that I would be interested in... in…" He rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth and shook his head. "I'm not. And I pray every night that that'll change, because I feel like shit because it holds me back, it creates this block for me in letting myself be emotionally connected to…to you…" he swallowed hard and said bitterly, "I was born missing something in my brain, and it screwed me over."_

_Steve tightened his hand around Bruce's, his mouth dry. "Bruce…you're not…you can't seriously think…" Bruce's eyes flickered darkly and dropped to the ground again. Steve's stomach dropped. He turned towards Bruce so he could look him in the eye and reached out for Bruce's other hand to grip it tightly, minding the bandages over his knuckles. "You're so…so important to me, Bruce. I don't think you understand what I…" Steve bit his lip when Bruce dropped his eyes to the ground again, his neck turning bright red. He squeezed Bruce's hands tightly and continued softly, "It's okay. Don't apologize for that, never apologize for that."_

_The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched into a frown and his fingers flexed nervously. He swallowed hard and began quietly, "That night…"_

_"You were drunk," Steve said softly, releasing one of Bruce's hands and relaxing back into the sofa again. "I didn't think you even remembered."_

_"I don't forget anything," Bruce muttered, blinking at his and Steve's hands where they were entwined on Steve's thigh. _

Steve found Bruce standing in the bay window of the dimly lit kitchen, clutching a heavy looking porcelain mug in his hands. The moon was out and the night was clear, so its rays spilled across the tile floor and bathed Bruce in a cold white glow, making his skin appear especially pale and his hair and eyes even darker than usual. He stood completely still, gazing out over the Thor's front lawn with that sad flicker in his eye that made Steve's chest hurt, made him feel like he could never really reach that untouchably sad part of Bruce that was ingrained so deeply in him.

"Hey," he spoke up softly, alerting Bruce to his presence so he didn't startle him.

Bruce glanced back at Steve and hunched over his mug a little more. "Hi. Sorry I ran out like that, I just…I shouldn't have said anything."

"Don't apologize," Steve cut Bruce off, shaking his head. He approached the smaller man slowly, giving Bruce time to move away if he wanted to. Bruce glanced at him warily, but allowed him to stand with him in the window. He followed Bruce's gaze to the manmade pond in the side yard. Despite the few feet of snow on the ground, the pond wasn't frozen; it must have been heated. A few stray ducks glided across the glasslike surface, disrupting the pitch black water with small white ripples as they moved. Steve snuck a look out of the corner of his eye at Bruce, trying to be subtle. Bruce was watching the ducks, his expression unreadable. Steve dropped his gaze to the cup in Bruce's hands. "What's that?"

Bruce looked down at the mug as if he'd forgotten it was there. Small tendrils of steam rose from the light colored liquid. "Tea. Thor had it in a canister that I gave him for Christmas. My mom dried out the herbs and made the…the blend…" he trailed off for a moment before finishing quietly. "I figured he wouldn't mind. Do you want some?"

He offered the mug to Steve, who hesitated a moments before shaking his head. "No thanks. I can't fall asleep if I have caffeine this late."

"You're lucky," Bruce smiled over the rim of his mug, going back to watching the ducks paddling around the pond.

Steve swallowed hard, stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on the balls of his feet. He spoke up after a long moment, breaking the calm silence with his question. "Was it Ross?"

Steve felt Bruce's body tense and his fingers tighten around his mug until his knuckles were white. Steve gritted his teeth together. "I swear to God, Bruce, if he touched you and you said no…"

"It wasn't him," Bruce replied faintly, running his thumb up and down the outside of the mug.

Steve gripped Bruce's biceps and turned the smaller man to face him, pulling him closer so that Bruce had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Steve looked down at Bruce and said solemnly, his alcohol scented breath ghosting across Bruce's face, "Whoever it was, you don't have to protect them, Bruce. If it wasn't consensual, if this person forced you…"

"Why would you think that?" Bruce demanded, torn between pulling away from Steve and leaning into his touch. "The only way I could have ever had sex was if someone wanted to assert their power over me? Is it really that unbelievable that someone just finds me attractive?"

"No," Steve replied simply. For a moment, Bruce was struck speechless by the solemnity in Steve's expression when he spoke. Steve continued seriously, "You were upset. I drew conclusions. Am I wrong?"

Bruce's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "That's a very scientific approach."

"I have a patient lab partner," Steve said lightly, willing to allow Bruce a moment of relief from the heavy question, but not letting it go. "Bruce. Please, you don't have to protect—"

"Please don't ask me this," Bruce cut him off, pressing his palm against Steve's chest and successfully distracting Steve from what he was saying. His fingers curled into the front of Steve's shirt and he shook his head, his curls brushing Steve's jaw. "I'm fine, alright? Everything is fine, everything is great…"

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," Steve raised a skeptical eyebrow, concern evident on his features. Bruce winced and shrunk away from him uncomfortably; Steve loosened his fingers around Bruce's arms, but maintained a cautionary grip. "You just…you deserve so much more than all this."

Steve almost let out a surprised yelp when there were suddenly lips covering his. The kiss was brief, barely a moment; it was all wrong angles and uneven breaths and it tasted like alcohol, but Steve felt Bruce's heartbeat against his chest and his thigh pressed to Steve's and Bruce's hands on his neck, and Steve had one hand tangled in Bruce's wild curls and the other on his hip and Steve just couldn't bring himself to care about anything else because _Bruce Banner_ was kissing him.

Bruce pulled away first, his cheeks bright red and using his grip on Steve's shirt to support himself. When he spoke, his voice was so soft Steve almost couldn't make out what he said. "You deserve better than what I can give you."

"I'm not asking for anything," Steve grasped Bruce's arm to keep him from leaving, slightly thrown.

Bruce shook his head and pulled his arm away, breaking contact between them. He covered his mouth with his hand and stared at Steve for a few moments, his eyes shining. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and reprimanding. "Don't do that. You need…you're so good, Steve. You're so good, and I'm so…" Bruce ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off of his forehead and smiled, looking ready to shatter into a thousand pieces. "I'm so fucked up. I like you. I…I like you a lot. But I'm not dragging you down with me."

"Don't talk like that," Steve reached out to grip Bruce's hands in his own, but Bruce backed away and shook his head wordlessly. Steve tried to catch Bruce's hands again, this time successfully getting a hold of his wrists. He gently tugged Bruce back towards him. He looked down at Bruce until Bruce was forced to meet his eyes. He squeezed Bruce's arms reassuringly, and said softly, "Please hear me out for a minute. You are going through an incredibly hard time; I understand how it feels. You know that." Bruce dropped his gaze to the floor at the allusion to Steve's on mother, and Steve waited a moment for Bruce to look up at him again before he continued, "And I don't know what you need, or how to help you, but I want to; I want to make things better for you so badly."

Bruce's eyes flickered over Steve's face, searching his expression, evidently confused by Steve's words. Steve sighed and let go of Bruce for a moment to undo the clasp of the cross around his neck. Bruce's breath ghosted over his fingers as Steve slipped the chain around Bruce's throat and clasped it shut. Steve let go of the pendant and let it fall into the neck of Bruce's loose white shirt. His fingers brushed the sides of Bruce's throat, and he felt Bruce stop breathing for a moment. Bruce reached up to undo the clasp, mumbling, "I can't take this, this was your mom's. I'm not…I can't…"

"I'm not asking you for anything," Steve repeated, smiling honestly. He hesitated for a moment, knowing he was getting emotional, knowing he was saying more than he ever would if his tongue hadn't been loosened by alcohol. "And I'm not asking you to decide, or define anything. I'm promising you something."

Bruce's hand stole to his throat to fiddle with the pendant as he scrutinized Steve contemplatively. After a few long moments of silence, he broke away from Steve's grip and disappeared into the hallway without another word, not looking back.

* * *

**So there it is! Let me know what you thought! Thank you all for your patience and encouragement in the development of this story. Drop me a review if you have a second! I've got a long rest of the week, so they're much appreciated:)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**_Long time no writing! Sorry it took so long to update, school and work have been crazy and I've barely had time to write. Soon classes will be over and I can update more regularly, so yay!_**

**_I want to thank everyone who's reviewed. They mean so much to me, and they keep me going with getting this thing written and posted. It means a lot for me to hear that you guys like this, and I really appreciate it._**

**_CHAPTER WARNINGS: slash, language, child abuse, mentions of rape and sexual assault, mentions of depression and eating disorders._**

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

_Tony slammed the door behind him and stormed out of the guidance counselor's office, muttering darkly under his breath. Bruce glanced up at him from where he'd been picking at the ragged skin around his nails and asked softly, "Why are you all doing this?"_

_Tony paused and stared at Bruce for a moment, confusion giving way to shocked understanding in a matter of seconds. He raised his eyebrows and clarified, "Protecting you? Because you didn't do anything wrong. So shut up about it, alright?"_

_Bruce nodded shortly and ducked his head again, going back to examining his fingers. The cushion next to him shifted as Tony sank onto it, and he flinched when Tony's hand rested on his back briefly. Bruce cleared his throat and asked hoarsely, "What did he ask you about?"_

_Tony pursed his lips into a thin line and replied honestly, "He wanted to know if you had a boyfriend."_

_Bruce cocked an eyebrow, amused. "What did you say?"_

_Tony frowned and shook his head. "I changed the subject, because, honestly, I don't know." When Bruce said nothing, he continued carefully, "Anyway, he was just asking because of your old hospital records. He mentioned…he said…"_

_Bruce's shoulders tensed and he ducked his head, hiding his eyes from Tony. "He said what?"_

_"Sexual assault," Tony's voice was deceptively calm and even. "He said there was evidence that you'd been assaulted. About a year ago." Bruce's fingers laced together on his lap so tightly Tony could hear his knuckles crack. Tony set his jaw and growled lowly, "I'm going to fucking kill him."_

_Bruce shook his head and choked out, "Don't, Tony, please…"_

_"It was Ross, wasn't it?" Tony rose to his feet, propelled by anger, and strode restlessly around the room, his vision swimming. "I knew it, I fucking knew it. He's been terrorizing you all year; it's fucking disgusting how he treats you. When did it happen?"_

_Bruce shook his head again and buried his face in his hands, feeling suddenly sick as the memories of that night came rushing back. _

_He heard Tony pacing back and forth in front of him; he could almost hear the gears turning in Tony's head and he pieced it together. "That…that party I dragged you to at Thor's last year. You got pissed at me for something and disappeared for an hour. I figured you went out the garden, you've always loved that damn garden. When you came back I remember thinking…I thought…" Tony let out a small noise of frustration and threw his hands up in anger, snapping, "Damn it, Bruce, you never told me! I knew something was wrong, you were acting weird and you wouldn't..!" Tony froze and glared at Bruce for a few long moments, trying in vain to get a reading of what his best friend was thinking. Bruce, however, refused to lift his gaze from his hands. Tony dropped his hands to his sides and ran his hands though his hair. "Fuck it." Tony cursed again under his breath and storm out of the room into the hallway, slamming the door behind him._

Tony groaned loudly and rolled over onto his side, flopping his arm over the edge of the bed. He sighed when his arm pressed against a warm body instead of his cool sheets and cracked his eyes open, wincing at the bright light spilling in from the windows. The first thing he noticed was that this was not his house; the red, floor length curtains looked like Thor's, but he couldn't be a hundred percent sure. Bruce was curled up next to him on his stomach, hugging one of the pillows to his chest and pressing his face into the pale blue sheets. He cracked one eye open when he felt Tony move and immediately closed it again, frowning.

"Hey," Tony jabbed him in the shin with his toes. "Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. What the hell happened last night?"

"You busted out your parent's alcohol," Bruce rolled onto his back, pulling the pillow with him and pressing it over his face so his voice was muffled. "We…I think we played Never Have I Ever…and that's… that's all I remember."

Tony rubbed his hands over his face and licked his dry lips. "Where's everyone else?"

"Dunno," Bruce murmured, already falling asleep again. He dropped his arms to his sides, allowing the pillow to flop onto the bed next to him. Tony bit his bottom lip and examined Bruce closely for a moment, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the pallor of his skin. He looked sick, and Tony was suddenly tempted to drag him down to the hospital. Last time he'd let Bruce talk him out of taking him to the emergency room, it had turned out he had come down with strep throat. He was slightly reassured that Bruce hadn't had a nightmare; according to Natasha, he'd been having them frequently all week.

Bruce noticed him staring and opened his eyes fully, drawing his eyebrows together inquisitively. "What is it?"

"I just thought…last night…" Tony began slowly, propping his head up on his elbow and rolling onto his side. "You said…you said something about sleeping with a guy…I…I just thought, I mean, I assumed that you were…that you didn't…"

"Didn't what?" Bruce asked, brushing his tangled, sweaty curls out of his eyes.

Tony shrugged and plucked at a stray string on the corner of a pillow case. "I just thought…you weren't interested."

"In men?" Bruce asked.

"In sex," Tony admitted, gauging Bruce's reaction.

Bruce's lips pursed and he nodded, ever so slightly. He licked his lips and said slowly, uncertainly. "I…I wasn't."

"What changed you mind?" Tony pressed softly, wanting to understand. Bruce had struggled with his own sexuality for a long time. Tony had been experimenting since the second he hit high school, but Bruce had never followed suit, with the exception of dating Betty for a couple weeks.

Bruce yawned widely and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back. His shirt rode up to expose a strip of pale white skin. His hipbones stood out sharply, and Tony caught a glimpse of dark bruises disappearing under the waistband of his worn jeans. There was a brief flash of silver at the neck of Bruce's shirt, but it disappeared before Tony could see what it was. Bruce ran a hand through his untamed curls and pushed them out of his face, only to have them fall right back into his dark eyes again. He answered matter-of-factly, "I didn't. I don't want to talk about this, Tony. Just let it go."

"We have to talk about it eventually," Tony argued. He pushed himself up on his elbows and began earnestly, "Listen, I think Steve sort of has a thing for you, I think he has for a long time, and if you want him to back off because you're uncomfortable, just say the word and I'll-"

"It's okay," Bruce cut him off, his voice quiet and hoarse. "He's not…he doesn't make me uncomfortable. He…he doesn't think of me…like that. It's fine."

"It's fine," Tony muttered, tossing aside the blankets and standing up, cracking his back and popping his knuckles. He threw his hands up in the air and repeated loudly, "It's fine, you're fine, everything is always so fucking fine with you, even when you're falling apart, Bruce. I swear to God, if I hear you tell me you're fine one more time when you look sick and exhausted and miserable and confused, I'm going to punch myself in the face." Bruce just stared at him for a few moments, clearly unsure of how to reply in a way that would get Tony to leave him alone. Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Let's go into the kitchen. You can make me some pancakes to repay for spending the night with me."

"It's Thor's bed," Bruce muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "And, anyway, I think I deserve some kind of award for that. I'm the only one who's been back more than twice."

"Hurtful," Tony put a hand to his chest and fixed Bruce with a wounded gaze. "Now you definitely have to cook for me. Or at least bat those big brown eyes at Steve and make him do it."

Bruce tried to smile, but the foggy haziness of first waking up seemed to be slowly giving way to his usual alert nervousness. He glanced at the clock and froze. "Is it really ten a.m.?"

"Unless Thor hasn't figured out how to set his clock yet," Tony shrugged. "Which, considering his success with the lockers, is a distinct possibil-hey, where do you think—?"

Bruce slid out of bed and pulled the discarded sweatshirt over his head, already starting towards the door. "I've got to go, my Dad's going to be pissed…"

"Wait," Tony followed him down the hallway, reaching out to grip his sleeve and hold him back. Bruce paused, but shifted his weight from foot to foot impatiently, glancing at the door. "Don't go yet. He's already going to be pissed; you might as well hang around for a while. Let's find everyone else and we can figure something out."

"I can't, Tony," Bruce pulled away, running his hands through his sleep-mussed hair, his tone wavering and verging on panicked. "He's been really uptight since he got me back. He doesn't want me out with you guys anymore, and I'm a goddamned mess…" he motioned to the borrowed clothes and frowned down at himself. "He's going to freak out, he's going to kill me."

Tony's stomach dropped at Bruce's words, but he didn't seem to notice. The phrase struck a little too close to home sometimes, and Tony felt the familiar gnawing guilt in his gut. Bruce's father could kill him, Bruce's father had come too damn close to killing him before, and Tony was letting it happen, he wasn't speaking up, he was scared. He was so fucking scared.

Tony opened his mouth to reply and reached out to curl his fingers around Bruce's elbow. He reached for Bruce's left arm automatically. Bruce's right elbow was a mess of scar tissue from the countless IV lines his father had stuck into him (usually while he was drunk off his ass). Before he could speak, however, another voice interrupted him.

"What's going on?" Steve stepped into the hallway from the kitchen, wide-awake and alert. Tony should have known he was one of those weird people who woke up at 4:30 in the morning of their own volition.

"I have to get home," Bruce replied, slipping past Steve. Tony noted how Bruce was particularly careful not to brush up against Steve, leaving a few inches of space between him. Steve turned around with Bruce, looking down at him with concern shining in his eyes, and asked, "Do you want a ride? I should head back anyway, and I think Clint needs a lift in your direction."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Bruce scratched his nose uncertainly, pausing in the front hall and looking back at Steve. "He…he doesn't like you much."

"So you're going to walk there in sneakers, through the snow?" Steve strode across the room and grabbed his coat from the coat rack next to the front door. "Clint, ready to go? We have to drop Bruce off, too."

"Yeah, I'm ready," Clint was suddenly in the hall next to Tony, pulling on a clean shirt he must have taken from Thor and making his way towards Steve. "Thanks, Thor!"

There was no reply, and Tony figured Thor was probably still fast asleep. He couldn't blame the guy; it had looked like he needed it lately.

"You've got your phone, right?" Tony trailed after them and held the door open, standing at the top of the stoop as Steve, Clint, and Bruce descended the stairs.

"Yeah," Bruce confirmed, feeling his front pocket for it. "I've got it."

Tony bit the inside of his cheek as he watched Bruce haul himself into the passenger's seat of Steve's truck, worry and guilt building up in his chest and making it difficult to breathe right.

* * *

When Steve pulled up in front of Bruce's house, Brian Banner and the entire Ross family was on the Banner's front lawn, engaged in what looked like a heated discussion. Brian was in the middle of spitting something out venomously at Ross's father when the sound of Steve's clunky pickup truck stopping in front of the house caught his attention. Bruce sucked in a deep breath and slid out the door to drop to the ground. He undid the chain around his neck and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans; Clint raised an eyebrow when he realized it was Steve's crucifix. Bruce's ruffled curls were a mess and he was still wearing the borrowed clothing. The white t-shirt was too loose and the jeans hung low on his hips; he had to keep yanking at the waistband to keep them up.

Steve jumped down from the driver's seat and slammed the door shut behind him, casting a wary look over his shoulder at where Bruce's father was watching them. Clint saw the anger, helplessness, and frustration in Steve's eyes and knew without a doubt that Steve knew how Brian Banner treated his son and was equally as pissed as Clint was.

Steve caught Bruce's wrist as Bruce walked by so he could tug him close for a moment, leaning down and pressing his mouth close to Bruce's ear so he could speak without being overheard. A muscle in Brian's jaw jumped and his hands clenched into fists at his sides so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Brian strode towards the end of the walk, closing the distance between himself and his son before Bruce could pull away from Steve. Brian grabbed the back of Bruce's shirt and yanked him out of Steve's grip. He tugged Bruce a few feet back, examining his neck carefully, the same way Buck did whenever Clint came home from Natasha's. When he was satisfied, he shoved Bruce away from him, sending him stumbling back against Steve's chest. Brian pointed a finger at Bruce and jabbed it into the middle of his chest, hard, as he growled threateningly, "You are in so much trouble, Robert. Where the fuck have you been? I told you not to stay out last night."

Clint noticed the way Steve's fingers had automatically gone to Bruce's hips to steady him, and raised his eyebrows when he realized that his hands were lingering there. Bruce didn't seem to notice, too intent on sputtering out an answer his father would accept. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before managing to blurt out, "I'm so sorry, Dad, I was over at Thor's and we were hanging out and I totally lost track of time…we fell asleep, I didn't mean to."

"Fell asleep?" Brian repeated doubtfully, eyeing Bruce's borrowed clothes significantly. "Get inside right now, Robert."

"I wasn't—" Bruce tried to speak, but Brian cracked him across the face with an open palm. Steve flinched as if he was the one who'd been hit. Brian grabbed the front of Bruce's shirt and yanked him away from Steve again, pulling Bruce towards himself so their faces were inches apart. "For fuck's sake, do you think I'm stupid? You come home after spending the night with him, wearing his clothes, and you think you can lie to me? You think I don't know what you're doing with him? I thought I taught you what better than that, I thought I managed to get the last of those…those inclinations…out of you."

"We weren't doing anything!" Bruce snarled, struggling to break free of his father's grip. "Anyway, I'm seventeen, I can make some decisions for myself."

Clint sucked in a short breath, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of shock and dread.

"Obviously you can't," Brian snorted derisively, tightening his grip on Bruce's forearms until Clint was sure his fingers would leave deep bruises. "Get inside."

"I'm not going to—" Brian shoved Bruce back towards the house before he could finish, not showing any remorse when Bruce was slammed against one of the splintering fence posts lining the yard.

"I said get inside, Robert," Brian repeated, his voice no longer painted with anger; instead, his tone was low and dangerous as he glared at Steve.

Bruce hesitated for a moment, his hand gripping the top of the fence post tightly as his gaze flickered back and forth between his father and Steve. He straightened up and ducked his head, rubbing his eyes hurriedly. He darted past his father to take the plastic bag from Steve's hands, flinching slightly when their fingers touched. He turned away from Steve and started towards the house with his eyes glued to the ground and his shoulders hunched.

Steve watched him go, an odd look clouding his usually bright blue eyes as they followed Bruce's progress up the steps. Brian Banner's gruff voice pulled his attention away from Bruce. "I want you off my property." Steve backed up, stepping from the shoveled path and onto the sidewalk next to his truck. Brian lifted his hand and pointed at Steve threateningly without speaking for a few moments before adding lowly, "And I want you to stay away from him."

"With all due respect, sir," Steve replied steadily. "I don't think I can do that."

Brian narrowed his eyes at Steve and considered him for a few moments, chewing on his bottom lip. "Your dad's the one who went off and got himself killed a few years back?"

"He died in combat, sir," Steve replied stiffly, tension building between his shoulders. His hands balled into fists in the pockets of his jeans.

Brian's lip curled. He shook his head and turned away from Steve, spitting, "Damn Army brats think you're entitled to everything. You're not entitled to my son."

"I never implied that I was," Steve said, not disrespectfully.

Brian rolled his eyes and stomped away from Steve, calling over his shoulder, "Get the hell out of here before I call the cops."

Steve pursed his lips and pulled the truck door open. He pulled himself up into the cab and slammed the door shut.

Brian strode towards the front door of the house as Steve's truck pulled away from the curb.

"Mr. Banner," Mr. Ross stepped towards the Banner's house, gently pushing his wife behind him. Brian jerked to a stop and glared at Ross, unamused. "I don't mean to overstep, but Bruce is seventeen. Teenagers are going to mess up. You shouldn't be so hard on him, especially not when he's such a good kid."

"I appreciate you advising me on how to raise my child," Brian smiled thinly, glaring at the front door where Bruce had just disappeared. "But I think I know Robert better than any of you do."

Mr. Ross set his jaw and didn't try to intervene again, instead reluctantly allowing Brian to follow Bruce inside. Clint flinched when the apartment door slammed behind him.

"Do you think..?" Ms. Ross glanced from her husband to the Banner's front door with concern and guilt written all over her face. "Maybe we should call…"

"So the kid can just lie to them again?" Mr. Ross cut her off more harshly then he meant to. His eyes flickered to where Steve was hovering next to his car, gazing at the Banner's house with his mouth set in a thin line. Mr. Ross shook his head, sighing deeply. "Forget it. Let's just…head back inside."

Mr. Ross reached out to grip his son's wrist and tug him towards their house next door, and Ross was too busy glaring at Steve to stop him. Steve didn't notice Ross; he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the Banner's front door. Ross grunted and turned on his heel, yanking his wrist out of his father's grip.

Clint climbed over the center console and rolled down the driver's side window.

"Steve," he called softly. Steve started and turned to look at him, his expression filled with a painful helplessness that made Clint's heart clench. Clint tilted his head, motioning for Steve to get back in the car. "C'mon."

Steve reluctantly walked back to the truck and climbed inside, periodically casting glances back at Bruce's place. It seemed like he had to force himself to start the truck and pull away from the curb. After a few minutes of driving in silence, he spoke up so softly Clint almost didn't hear him. "He kissed me."

Clint raised an eyebrow, impressed and surprised. "Bruce did? Last night?"

Steve nodded stiffly, clenching his hands around the wheel. It was another long moment before he added reluctantly, "I'm not sure what it means."

Clint shook his head, just as bemused as Steve. "I wish I could tell you, man. He's hard to read."

Steve pursed his lips in agreement and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, keeping his eyes locked on the road ahead.

* * *

Brian grabbed the back of Bruce's shirt and slammed him into the wall the second the door closed behind him. Bruce gasped and dug his fingernails into the wall, caught off balance. Brian turned Bruce around to face him and growled lowly, "I warned you to stay the fuck away from him!"

"Dad, I just fell asleep, I didn't—" Bruce struggled weakly against his father, his hands scrabbling uselessly against Brian's chest.

"You fell asleep? Fell asleep?" Brian snarled disbelievingly.

He shoved Bruce to the side, sending him crashing into the coat rack next to the door. Bruce managed to scramble out of the way before it came down on top of him, but it was dangerously close. Brian reached down and snatched the front of Bruce's shirt, yanking him upwards and forcing the disoriented boy to his feet again. He wasn't even trying to be quiet; his voice filled the entire house as he demanded, "Where did I go wrong with you, you goddamn pervert? You're not a complete moron, Robert; you know that fucking another man is wrong!"

"It's not," Bruce replied hoarsely, gripping his father's wrist and looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes that were the same shade of dark brown as his mother's. "Anyway, we're not…"

His protests died on his lips when his father's hand cracked across his face, hard, effectively shutting him up.

"This is your mother's fault!" Brian raged, slamming Bruce against the wall again, so roughly the picture hanging in the hallway shook. "She always babied you!"

"Nothing is her fault," Bruce spoke up, his voice starting strong but breaking before he could finish. He cleared his throat and said, "Nothing is her fault because nothing is going on. He's my friend, that's it. My friend."

"You expect me to believe that after how he was touching you?" Brian snarled. He dragged Bruce into the living room and pushed Bruce away from him, disgusted. Bruce flailed out for a grip on something to keep him from falling. He managed to grab onto the base of the lamp next to the couch, but only succeeded in dragging the lamp down with him. The bulb shattered, as did the glass casing around the base, Bruce let out a sharp cry of pain when he fell to the ground and the splinters of glass wedged into his palms. Brian's foot connected with Bruce's side, and Bruce crowded against the side of the couch, curling up in an effort to protect his face and ribs. "If you let all your friends touch you like that, maybe you're more like your mother than I thought, you little whore." Bruce heard Brian's belt buckle clink and the leather belt being pulled from his belt loops; Bruce's breathing became more labored and he tried to drag himself away, terror making his vision go white. "Take that shirt off. I don't want you returning it all torn up."

Bruce complied automatically, pulling his shirt over his head and setting it to the side. He forced himself to breath evenly, trying to make the muscles of his back relax.

He dug his nails into the carpet, tugging at the short strands of the rug, and braced himself for the familiar stinging across his back.

* * *

When Steve made it home, he noticed the flag on the mailbox was up. He parked at the end of the driveway and jumped down from the cab of the truck. He leaned over the snow piled around the mailbox and opened the front.

He absentmindedly flipped through the mail, his mind still lingering on the feel of Bruce's chapped lips against his, on Bruce's words as he darted out of the room. He wondered if Bruce even remembered; he had been drinking, and Steve figured he must have been drunk out of his mind if he was relaxed enough to kiss Steve like that.

He paused when he caught sight of his name on the outside of one of the envelopes. His heart jumped to his throat when he realized that the return address was one of the schools he'd sent his application into a few weeks ago. He hadn't expected a reply so soon; he'd known most of them had rolling admission, but he hadn't thought they would be able to get back to him so quickly.

He dropped the other mail onto the driver's seat and slit open the packet with his finger, his hands shaking so hard he almost couldn't get it open. He swallowed hard and tugged the thick stack of papers out of the package, almost dropping half of them on the ground in the process. His eyes flickered over the top page, scanning it frantically for the words he was looking for.

_…pleased to inform you that you have been accepted…_

Steve's knees went weak. He caught himself on the edge of his seat and hauled himself into the truck, his whole boy shaking with relief. He clutched the letters to his chest, unable to read the rest of the letter or look through any of the other papers from the packet yet. He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed the number Bucky had given him for the base, hoping against hope that Bucky would be there.

It rang four times before someone picked up. "Hello?"

"Is Sargent Barnes around?" Steve asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

There was a short pause before the man on the other end of the line asked, "Is this Steve?"

"Yeah," Steve replied, his excitement slightly dampened. "I know he's not usually around now, I just have some news…"

"Yeah, he's busy," the man said after a moment. "Sorry, kid. You just missed him."

"That's alright," Steve assured him, his fingers clenching around the papers in his hand until they crinkled. "Can you just have him call if he gets a chance?"

"Yeah," the man agreed. His voice had an odd lilt to it, and Steve wondered suddenly who he was, what he joined the Army for, and who he'd been by the phone waiting for a call from. Steve was about to hang up when the man asked quickly, "What have you got to tell him?"

Steve blinked, surprised at the question, but didn't see any harm in replying. "I…I got accepted into art school. He was…he always wanted me to go for it. He's the reason I did."

"That's great," the man said, his voice sounding suddenly distant, as if he'd moved the phone away from his face for a moment. "He's a great guy."

"Yeah, he is," Steve agreed, uncertain of where this conversation was going. "I…thanks for letting him know."

"It's no problem," the man assured him. "And, hey, congrats on getting in."

"Thanks," Steve said, nodding shortly. "Goodbye."

He hung up the phone and dropped it onto the seat next to him. He hugged the stack of papers that were his ticket out of this place, into a career he'd always dreamed of to his chest and leaned back into the seat of his truck, his hands still shaking with the sheer shock and relief of the realization that what he'd wanted since he'd been ten years old was finally happening.

* * *

_Natasha shut the door behind her and stepped into the main office, her eyes immediately going to where Bruce was hunched over on the couch, his face buried in his hands. She hesitantly crossed the room and sat down next to him, perching herself on the opposite end of the couch to give him some space. _

_ After a few long, silent moments, he swallowed hard and said, his voice scarily calm, "Tony's going to kill Ross."_

_ Natasha's stomach dropped, not because she was concerned about Tony's actions, but because of the implications of Bruce's statement. "Why?"_

_ "He found out," Bruce said softly, dropping his hands to his lap and staring down at them helplessly. "He put it together, and now he's pissed."_

_ "He left you here," Natasha said quietly. _

_ Bruce blinked, his eyes shining noticeably, and mumbled, "He was angry. He's just handling it the way he knows how."_

_ Natasha resisted the urge to grab his shoulders, shake him, and shout 'he should be here, helping you handle it, he should get the fuck over his own personal need for revenge to make sure you're okay because you are more important than that douchebag', figuring now wasn't the time to put Bruce's relationship with Tony in question. Instead, she inquired calmly, "And how are you handling it?"_

_ Bruce laughed abruptly, humorlessly. "Great. Everyone thinks I'm a murderer, and I keep getting interrogated about being raped. I don't see how this situation could get any better."_

_ "Maybe you should tell them what Ross did," Natasha suggested hesitantly, noting the darkening of Bruce's eyes at her words. He had refused to report Ross right after the attack, despite her urgings to do so. She hadn't had the heart to bully him into telling someone; she'd found him in the library the day after the party, barely holding himself together. After a few careful questions and some observations of his split lip and his discomfort when he tried to sit, she'd been able to determine pretty definitively what had happened to him. "He doesn't deserve to get away with that, Bruce."_

_ "He already did," Bruce replied shortly. "There's no evidence, just my word against his."_

_ Natasha pursed her lips into a thin line. "I would vouch for you."_

_ Bruce looked up at her and met her eyes for the first time since she'd come into the room. He did something that both shocked her and made her heart warm; he reached over and gripped her hand to squeeze it tightly for a long moment. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and said quietly, "Thank you so much, Natasha."_

_ Natasha smiled wanly and squeezed his hand back silently, the ignoring the stinging pressure building in the corners of her eyes. _

Natasha checked her phone one more time in her way from the car to the dance studio, making sure she hadn't missed a call from her aunt making sure she'd made it to the studio or any her friends to talk about their lives falling apart. She tucked the phone back into her pocket and hefted duffle her bag up onto her shoulder, striding towards the front doors of the studio determinedly and wishing she were practically anywhere else.

"Nat!"

Natasha paused for a moment at the sound of her name and glanced around the parking lot, confused. There were only a few other cars, and they were all empty, as far as she could see. She eyed the bushes lining the lot suspiciously before continuing towards the front door.

"Natasha!"

She turned on her heel and glared in the general direction of the voice she was now sure she was really hearing. She clutched the strap of her bag tightly and hissed, "Go home, Clint."

Clint stumbled out from behind one of the bushes and motioned for her to move closer, making sure to stay out of sight of the studio's front door. "I came all the way out here and you're sending me away before I can even say anything? C'mon, Natasha."

"What do you want?" she hissed, reluctantly stepping towards the bush and away from the studio.

"Just skip this one lesson for me," Clint batted his eyes innocently. When Natasha only pursed her lips into a frown and rolled her eyes at him, he realized he had to change tactics. His expression shifted to a more serious one. "Really, Nat, it's just one time. I was…I want to take you to dinner."

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him and repeated, "Take me to dinner?"

"When I say that I mean it in a totally non-entitled, it's totally up to you, you're-paying-half kind of way," Clint rushed to amend, looking down at Natasha hopefully. He shrugged. "I mean, I just thought it would be nice."

"Are you asking me on a…a date?" Natasha asked to clarify, confused by Clint's request.

Clint shrugged and threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "I don't know what it is. It's just us hanging out, like we always do. I just want to spend some time with you, and you've been so busy lately…"

Natasha glanced back at the studio and hesitated a moment before replying reluctantly, "I…I don't think I can…"

"Haven't you ever wanted to do something to disobey your parents?" Clint asked honestly. "Just once? If you really would rather go in there and rehearse again, then I'm not going to fault you for it. But only if it's what you really want."

Natasha crossed her arms and regarded him coldly for a few moments. Clint shrugged apologetically and ducked his head in defeat, stepping back and turning to head back to his car. Natasha sucked in a short breath and strode past Clint, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him towards his car. "I'll drive."

* * *

_"How are you feeling?"_

_ Bruce started when Clint's voice came from right next to him, smothering a yelp of surprise. He pressed his hand to his chest and tried to force his heartbeat to go back to normal. "I…I didn't hear you come in."_

_ "You looked like you were asleep," Clint squinted down at Bruce and reached out to grip the smaller man's chin. Bruce allowed Clint to turn his face to get a better look at the dark bruises and angry red welts on his cheek. Clint sighed and snapped softly, "That bastard."_

_ Bruce shrugged and tried not to shift uncomfortably under Clint's uncharacteristically serious gaze. "It's not that bad. I've had worse."_

_ Clint snorted shortly and allowed his gaze to trail to the bruises peeking out from the collar of Bruce's shirt. His mouth tightened and he let go of Bruce, turning on his heel and taking a few steps away, keeping his back to Bruce. "I can't imagine…I can't imagine keeping myself together the way you do if they hadn't taken me away from her."_

_ "Your mom?" Bruce asked softly._

_ Clint's shoulders tensed and he replied quietly, "Yeah." He paused for a moment before he turned to face Bruce and met the smaller man's gaze with desperate, tired eyes. "How do you do this?"_

_ "Do what?" Bruce asked mildly, eyebrows drawn together in confusion._

_ "I don't…we got taken away from my mom a year after our dad left," Clint said. "A year. You've kept this…this secret that tears you up inside for seventeen years, Bruce. You lie and you deflect and you hide your bruises with makeup and teachers leave you alone. I couldn't…I barely lasted a year before they found out what she was doing."_

_ "You were five," Bruce pointed out incredulously. "Don't beat yourself up about it. It's not something you should be jealous of. My dad is really not that bad, anyway; I put up with more from Ross."_

_ "Why do you defend him?" Clint asked quietly. "He…Bruce, look at your wrists, your face, I mean, come on. He held you down and beat the shit out of you. How can you still say he's not that bad?"_

_ Bruce rubbed his hand over his mouth and smiled humorlessly. "Habit, I guess. He's all I have."_

_ Clint raised his eyebrows and snapped irritably, glaring angrily at the wall, "Oh, so me, who should be visiting his baby brother in rehab but instead came here to help you out, you don't have me? Or Natasha, who I have only ever seen cry on the night you were admitted to the hospital two years ago half dead and hypothermic; you don't have her? What about Thor, who's struggling with himself and his brother, but cares about you so much he's putting all his own problems on hold until this investigation is over? Or Tony, who has given you everything, who has opened his house and his life to you, you don't have him? And what about…what about Steve? You don't have him either? Because if what he's told me is any indication, I think-"_

_ "You know that's not what I meant," Bruce growled lowly, rising to his feet and striding to glare out the window over the front lawn of the school. He rubbed his eyes and continued, in a tone of forced calm, "I meant of my family. My family. I…he's kept me completely isolated. My mom's parents…they didn't even know who I was."_

_ Clint tongued the inside of his cheek and bit his lip, feeling a little guilty about snapping at Bruce. As much as Bruce was trying to hide it, Clint could see that his façade was cracking and he was close to breaking down. He didn't want to be the one that pushed Bruce that far. He let out a long breath and sighed deeply. "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…we're all a little over the edge right now."_

_ Bruce shrugged, the muscles in his back bunched up tightly. He didn't turn to face Clint when he replied tersely, "Yeah."_

_ Clint watched him for a few moments, wishing he'd just kept his mouth shut. He rubbed the back of his neck and hesitantly asked, "Are you hungry?"_

_ "No."_

_ Clint eyed Bruce doubtfully, noting how the sweater Bruce was wearing seemed to drape over him a little more loosely then it had a few months ago. "When's the last time you ate?"_

_ Bruce shrugged and hummed softly, considering, before saying decisively, "I got a sandwich when I went to visit Tony in the hospital."_

_ "So three days ago?" Clint repeated, unimpressed. Why was no one watching him? Why was no one making sure he ate something? "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."_

_ "You don't have to," Bruce called after him, turning around as Clint strode out of the room. "I don't want—"_

_ Bruce couldn't help but crack a small smile when Clint flipped him off and slammed the door behind him._

Natasha slipped into her house later that night, trying desperately to be as quiet as possible. It was close to one a.m., and she was supposed to have been home two hours before. Despite the dread settled in her stomach, the corners of her lips were curled upwards. She'd ended up bringing them to one of the Italian bistros downtown, craving garlic and bread. She'd had a good time; Clint made her laugh, as much as she hated to admit it, and she didn't have to be self-conscious about what she was wearing, what she said, or if her breath reeked of garlic, because Clint didn't care. It was refreshing.

The bottom stair creaked when she stepped on it, and the hall light flicked on. She cringed and crossed her arms over her chest, preparing to be lectured.

Instead of Alyona swooping down the stairs, Natasha was greeted with Dmitri standing at the top of them, looking down at her with a mixture of curiosity and resignation in his expression. He pursed his lips and said quietly, "We got the call that you didn't show up for rehearsal. You aunt was worried sick."

"I didn't want to go," Natasha replied, surprising herself with her brutal honesty. "I got a better offer."

Dmitri smiled at her, his lips barely curving upwards and said softly, "I always figured you would someday." Before Natasha could ask what he meant, he continued, "As your punishment, you'll have to clean the basement this weekend."

"I'm supposed to see Michael Saturday afternoon," Natasha pointed out.

"Clean when you get home," Dmitri said, stepping away from the top of the stairs. "You should get to bed before your aunt wakes up."

"Good night," Natasha mumbled, ducking her head so her curls fell across her face and making her expression look suitably ashamed.

"Night," Dmitri disappeared from the stairwell and Natasha heard the master bedroom door close a few seconds later.

She made her way to the top of the stairs and to her bedroom, where she flopped onto her bed on her back, not bothering to kick her shoes off. She dragged a pillow towards her and clutched it to her chest, still unable to shake the warm feeling of contentedness glowing in her chest that had been there since Clint had intercepted her in the parking lot.

* * *

_ Bruce glanced up when the door to the school counselor's office opened again and Thor stepped out. Thor carefully closed the door behind him and gave Bruce a strained smile. "Hello, friend."_

_ Bruce managed a smile that he was sure looked just as painful as Thor's. "Hi, Thor. How…how are you feeling?"_

_ "It is not I you should be concerned about at the moment," Thor crossed the room in a few long strides and sat down next to Bruce. Thor paused a moment, waiting for Bruce to look him in the eye, and fixed him with a solemn gaze. "They do not believe me, Bruce. I do not believe they believe any of us."_

_ Bruce chewed on his bottom lip and rubbed his knuckles against the corners of his eyes. "I figured they wouldn't."_

_ Thor's gaze flickered from the dark bruises circling Bruce's wrists; they stood out in a stark contrast to his pale skin. Thor's fingers unconsciously hovered over where Loki had gripped his own wrists hard enough to leave bruises the night before and winced sympathetically. "I…I believe they intend to arrest you."_

_ Bruce nodded shortly and sucked in a deep breath, not looking at Thor. "They've already got a cop guarding the door to the main office. I'm not allowed to leave." Bruce jerked his head towards the door and Thor saw a man standing in the hallway, looking bored and tired. Bruce's brow furrowed and he pursed his lips, considering a moment before continuing softly, "Would you do me a favor?"_

_ "Of course," Thor replied readily. "What is it you need?"_

_ Bruce reached out and gripped Thor's hand tightly; Thor felt the sharp edges of folded paper cut into his palm. Bruce used his grip on Thor to tug the larger man closer, so he could whisper without being overheard, "I need you to get this to Tony."_

* * *

**_So it's kind of a short little filler, but I think the next one should be pretty big. Hopefully I can get it posted soon, I will try! _**

**_Please, please, review if you have a second! I love hearing from you all, and anything to brighten my day is very much appreciated. _**

**_Thanks for reading!_**


	8. Chapter 8

**Wow, so sorry I've been gone forever! I just totally lost motivation and was so busy, it was crazy. But enough with excuses! I'll try to do better from now on. Thank you all for bearing with me. Your support means everything when it comes to writing this.**

**WARNINGS: mentions of rape, child abuse, allusions to eating disorders, discussion of self harm and depression, slash, language**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

Thor tapped his fork against the edge of his plate and pushed his chicken around along the edge, trying to make it look like he'd eaten something. He could feel Loki watching him, and prayed silently that his brother wouldn't say anything. He still had a dull headache from the alcohol he'd consumed the previous evening, and he was desperately aching to go to bed.

"Are you feeling alright, Thor?" Odin spoke up suddenly, his dark gaze following his son's fork around his plate. He'd noticed Thor wasn't eating, despite his sons best efforts to disguise it, and he was quite frankly stricken by the way Thor's clothes were hanging more loosely on his already lean frame.

Thor glanced up from his plate, met his father's gaze with dull eyes, and nodded slowly. "I am fine, Father. Simply tired."

Odin eyed Thor doubtfully and set down his fork. He sucked in a deep breath, bracing himself for the conversation he'd been avoiding since his wife had been murdered. "You have seemed rather…detached lately."

"I do not understand," Thor said, his eyebrows drawing together in a convincing display of confusion.

"Your brother had informed me that you have been…upset lately," Odin said carefully, casting Loki a fleeting glance. Loki's gaze remained fixed on his plate, and Odin pursed his lips tightly, recalling what Loki had said to him the other night. It had been a passing comment, about Thor's sleep schedule and demeanor of late, but it had resonated in Odin's mind. "I simply would like to know what is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," Thor replied quickly, digging his nails into his thighs under the table where Odin couldn't see. After a few long, tense moments, he amended falteringly, "I mean…I don't know."

"You have been moping around the house for months," Odin said, irritation with his oldest edging into his tone. He repeated firmly, "What has been bothering you?"

"I know not, Father," Thor snapped, trying to keep his voice steady. He twisted his fingers together in his lap nervously. There was nothing wrong with him, and there was no reason for his father to worry. He made the mistake of looking over at Loki, and was unsurprised when his brother refused to look at him. "I am simply unhappy. I cannot find why."

"I suggest you figure it out soon," Odin said sharply. He leaned back in his chair, satisfied that he'd gotten his point across. He took a bite of chicken and continued, "You are a prince, and it is inappropriate for you to be acting this way."

"You believe I wish to feel this way?" Thor asked tersely, his throat tightening and his chest aching at his father's dismissive words. His stomach felt suddenly cold and empty. He dropped his fork onto his plate, unable to swallow. "You believe I wish to feel distraught?"

"It matters not what I believe or what you feel," Odin regarded Thor with his eyebrows drawn together, as if confused by his son's words. "It matters that you show yourself worthy of the position you hold."

Thor pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, unable to handle the conversation any longer. He strode from the room without looking back, his throat uncomfortably dry and scratchy. His chest felt tight; he had known his father would not be accepting of his emotional distress, but he hadn't expected such an abrupt dismissal.

"Thor!" Odin called after him, exasperatedly. Thor ignored him, instead continuing towards his room.

He did not wish for his father to see the tears of frustration shining in his eyes.

* * *

Steve leaned back and stretched his arm across the back of the bench, yawning widely. Bruce was hunched over on the bench next to him, his nose buried in a thick novel. Steve thought about asking Bruce about his newly earned F in Chemistry, but thought better of it and figured he might as well get some homework done while he was waiting. He pulled out his math book, but paused when he heard a car door slam in the mostly deserted parking lot. He glanced up from his textbook and his stomach dropped when he saw Brian Banner striding towards them. Steve's gaze flickered over to Bruce to see if he'd noticed, but Bruce gave no sign of having heard his father's approach.

Brian caught sight of Bruce and stopped in his tracks, his eyes going dark when they fell on the hunched figure. He strode over towards the bench, ill-disguised fury in his eyes, and came to a halt a few feet away. He cleared his throat and put his hand on his hips, glaring down at Bruce and waiting for his son to notice him.

Bruce flinched at the sound of Brian clearing his throat and his head shot up to look at his father, his eyes wide. Steve pursed his lips, not liking the way Bruce's fingers had clenched around his book so tightly his knuckles were white. Bruce forced himself to relax, untensing his fingers slightly, and said, "Dad. What are you doing here?"

"I got a call today," Brian replied calmly, his voice cold and unfeeling. When he smiled, there was no warmth or gentility behind it. "It seems you forgot to tell me about parent teacher conferences tonight. Your Chemistry teacher seems very concerned about you. He says you seem distracted, and that you've barely handed in any homework this semester." He paused, considering for a moment before adding, "Of course, he could just be reading too far into it, don't you think? He could be wrong thinking something is bothering you. Are you sure you're not just stupid?"

Bruce shrugged and ducked his head, the back of his neck flushing bright red.

"Are you?" Brian demanded. Steve felt almost sick to his stomach at the twisted pleasure Brian was getting from seeing Bruce squirm.

"I…I guess I might just be…stupid" Bruce muttered. Steve almost spoke up indignantly, but bit his tongue. Bruce was far from stupid; Steve would bet his life that Bruce was a genius. He personally didn't really understand or have an interest in the physics and engineering that Tony and Bruce talked excitedly about together, but he knew enough to recognize that both of them were pretty damn smart.

"So I said of course I was planning on coming in so we could all sit down and have a chat about it," Brian reached out and gripped the front of Bruce's thick sweater and yanked him to his feet. Bruce stumbled, but managed to regain his balance before he tumbled head first into his father. "Say goodbye to your friend." Brian sneered at Steve on the word 'friend'.

"Bye, Steve," Bruce choked out automatically, clutching his book to his chest.

"Bye," Steve replied, biting his bottom lip nervously and tightening his grip on the hard cover of his math book. He had to use every ounce of restraint he had to remain seated and silent as they started away.

Brian moved his hand to rest high on the center of Bruce's back so he could guide his son towards the front door of the school. His fingers dug into the thick curls at the base of Bruce's neck, tearing painfully at the dark locks. Bruce's shoulders tensed, but he made no move to pull away. Steve bit the inside of his cheek as she watched them go, his vision blurry with anger. He hunched over and rested his elbows on his knees to run at his eyes frustratedly.

The front door of the school squeaked as it opened and closed. Steve sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to his feet, setting off towards his car and not looking back.

* * *

_ Steve stared down at his hands where they were flopped in his lap, his mind blank. He felt numb; t almost felt like he was viewing the world through a thick pane of glass. He glanced at his keys on the bench next to him and briefly considered leaving. He wasn't hungry, but Bruce probably was, and it couldn't hurt to leave for fifteen minutes to grab him something to eat._

_ He was just about to attempt to gather enough strength to force himself to his feet when the door at the end of the hall burst open and Tony came flying into the building, his expression twisted with rage. He bee lined for the main office, but Steve managed to grab him before he could attack Bruce with whatever had pissed him off. "Hey, hey, what's going on?"_

_ "Let go of me, Rogers," Tony snarled, struggling to break out of Steve's grip. Steve couldn't help but be concerned with the way Tony's chest was heaving sporadically. Tony may have been an egotistical jerk, but right now he was an egotistical jerk who was barely eighteen, struggling with grief, and who was working desperately to keep his best friend from falling apart in front of him. _

_ Steve maintained his grip on Tony and forced the smaller man to sit down on the bench he had recently vacated. Tony glared up at him and scratched at Steve's arms in an attempt to get him to let go, but Steve held onto him until he stopped trying to fight. Tony threw his hands up in defeat and flopped back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and saying, disgruntled, "What the hell is wrong with you?"_

_ "What's wrong with me?" Steve repeated incredulously. "You're the one who just burst in here looking like you wanted to punch the first person you saw. The last thing Bruce needs right now is you going off at him."_

_ Tony bit the inside of his cheek and continued to glare at Steve, but he inclined his head minutely in agreement. Steve slid onto the bench next to Tony, fairly certain Tony was calm enough to let go of. "What happened?"_

_ "Thor gave me a note Bruce had written," Tony pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket and ran in between his fingers absentmindedly. Steve pried it from his fingers and unfolded it. The paper was covered with indistinguishable scribbles. Tony must have notice his confused expression, because he muttered in explanation, "It's in some stupid code we came up with when we were ten."_

_ "What's it say?" Steve asked._

_ Tony opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly froze. Steve waved a hand in front of Tony's face, trying to get his attention. "Tony. Hey, Tony. What—?"_

_ Steve followed Tony's gaze to the end of the hall. He stood up quickly when he caught sight of Ross standing in the doorway. He glanced at Tony and muttered, "Why is he here?"_

_ "Bruce wanted me to get him down here," Tony said through gritted teeth. "He wanted to talk to him."_

_ "About what?" Steve demanded angrily, glaring at Ross as he made his way towards them._

_ "You think I have any more of an idea than you do?" Tony snapped. "He just said he wanted to talk to him. Do you think I want this creep anywhere near Bruce, ever?"_

_ Ross stopped in front of them and regarded them both with a curious, amused expression. "Hey. I should have known you two would be here."_

_ Tony's upper lip curled is disgust and he rose to his feet to stand next to Steve, shoulder to shoulder, to create a wall between the door to the office and Ross. "Damn straight we're here. And we're not leaving anytime soon."_

_ "You're the one who called me here," Ross pointed out, his smile dimming. "Unlike you, I have plans this weekend, so if we could get this over with as soon as possible, I'd appreciate it."_

_ Tony growled lowly as Ross pushed by them, and whipped around to follow the older man into the office. Bruce started when they entered, and his eyes darkened when he saw Ross. _

_ Tony spoke up before anyone else could. He frowned at Bruce and motioned to Ross, announcing, "Well, here he is. I'm not sure why you're choosing to put yourself in the presence of a fucking douchebag like him, but, hey, your call."_

_ Bruce rolled his eyes and waved Tony's sarcastic jab away impatiently. "Thanks, Tony. You and Steve can wait outside."_

_ "Yeah, right," Tony crossed his arms and planted his feet, leveling Bruce with a serious gaze. The line between Bruce's eyebrows deepened. "I'm not leaving you alone with him."_

_ Bruce frowned at him and sighed. He dropped his head into his hands and was quiet for a moment before he sat up and fixed Tony with a serious gaze. "I want you to. Please."_

_ Steve saw something flicker in Bruce's eyes, something pleading and dark and immensely terrified. He pursed his lips and gripped Tony's arm tightly, tugging him towards the door. "I think we should give them a minute, Stark."_

_ "Give them—" Tony struggled to throw Steve off, but was again unsuccessful. "Do you know what the fucker did to him? Even you can't be that fucking—"_

_ "Tony," Steve snapped, glancing up at Bruce to see his reaction. Bruce merely gave Steve a tired, grateful smile. Steve gave him a small smile in return, continuing to pull Tony towards the door._

_ Steve yanked Tony out of the room behind him and shut the door before firmly placing himself in front of it. "Listen, I know you're concerned, but we're right out here and Bruce is literally ten feet away from a cop in the next room. I think he's safe for now. If this is what he wants, I think he deserves a little control over something, for once."_

_ Tony pursed his lips in begrudging agreement._

* * *

Tony feigned disinterest and leaned back in his chair, pretending not to listen to his English teacher talking to his parents about his grades and classroom participation. He hated parent teacher conferences. He'd only been forced to attend about four in his entire life, because usually his parents were away, but all his teachers had said the exact same thing.

_Exceptionally bright, egotistical tendencies, doesn't work well with others, mouths off to teachers, blah, blah, blah._

Ms. Grey was just getting to the part about him mouthing off when she changed the script. She pulled out a paper from one of the folders on her desk and held it out to his father. He took it from her and scanned the page curiously. She smiled at Maria and said, "Tony and Steve Rogers collaborated on this poem during one of our units. I was very impressed with his portion of the writing."

"Rogers is a good influence on him," Howard agreed, his eyes moving quickly down the page. Tony's lip curled at the mention of Steve. He hated being compared to Steve, and his dad never failed to jump at the chance.

Grey looked a little miffed and raised an eyebrow, commenting lightly, "Well, they get along so well…" Tony almost allowed himself to smile before she continued, "The point is, Mr. Stark, that your son, while occasionally obnoxious and excessively talkative, is very gifted. You should be proud."

Tony's stomach swooped and he glanced at his father, his breath caught in his throat. Howard shrugged, not looking up from the page in front of him. Tony was almost one hundred percent sure he was reading the section Steve had written. Tony swallowed hard, successfully containing his anger. Grey's eyebrows furrowed and she glanced between Tony and his father with interest. The awkward silence was broken by Howard's phone ringing. He stood up and politely excused himself, disappearing into the hallway to take his call. He left the papers on the edge of Ms. Grey's desk.

Tony exchanged a glance with his mother, trying not to look as irritated as he felt. Maria smiled at Ms. Grey and apologized softly, "I'm sorry, he has a very demanding job. Unfortunately, he has to be available at all times to his employees and it sometimes happens at inconvenient times."

"I understand," Ms. Grey nodded sympathetically. "I think I've said all I can say, anyway. Thank you for your time. It was wonderful to meet you."

Maria rose to her feet and shook Ms. Grey's hand. "It was nice to meet you as well. Have a good night."

Tony trailed after his mother into the hallway, grateful that they were almost done for the night. He caught sight of his father at the end of the hall, glaring at the wall as he growled something irritably into his phone, and something in his chest shifted and burned.

* * *

Bruce shifted uncomfortably in the chair next to his father, struggling to keep his face impassive and neutral despite the pain shooting through his back. Brian had one arm draped over the back of his chair, making him feel boxed in and uncomfortable, and it was difficult to force himself not to shy away from him.

"I brought it up with Bruce earlier this year, and I'm still a little concerned," Mr. Summers tapped his pencil against the top of his grade book and fixed Bruce with an apologetic look of concern. Bruce dropped his gaze to the ground, his stomach rolling. "His class all took an IQ test at the beginning of their freshman year. Did he ever tell you what he scored on it?"

"A 184," Brian replied, gritting his teeth into a grin. His fingers dug into the tender skin of Bruce's bandaged shoulder roughly. "I do remember. Why?"

"He's only maintained a steady C average in every class all through high school," Mr. Summers elaborated. "It's just unusual. He can do the work, I'm sure. I know that recently things have been rough, but before…"

Brian shrugged and shook his head, digging his fingers deeper into Bruce's shoulder. "I'm afraid I don't have an explanation for you. Those tests are sometimes a poor measure of practical ability. He hasn't ever shown anything to indicate a genius IQ."

"That's the thing," Summers pulled something out from the side drawer of his desk and held it out to Brian. "I found this on the floor of my lab the other day. It's Bruce's handwriting."

Bruce's stomach dropped further and he almost stopped breathing when he saw it was his blue notebook. He must have forgotten it after gym and left it on the floor. He ducked his head to hide the fact that he was struggling to breathe evenly.

"I had Principal Xavier look through it, and he was amazed," Summers continued, casting Bruce a worried glance, but forging on nonetheless. "He said he'd never seen anything like some of the equations and theories in there, especially not from someone as young as Bruce. I think you should have him tested again, there's a good chance that since his brain is still developing his score may even be higher than it was when he was thirteen."

"I'm afraid that's not something I want to look into," Brian replied coldly. He flipped through the pages of the notebook, his eyebrows climbing higher up his forehead with every diagram he looked at, every sentence he read, every equation he observed. "Bruce has more important things to worry about than an arbitrary score on a useless test. We aren't even sure he came up with these things. His best friend is actually a genius, isn't he? Stark?"

"Well, yes, Tony is," Summers agreed reluctantly, blinking in surprise at Brian's uninterested response. "But I don't think—"

"So there is the possibility that Robert just writes these things down," Brian cut Summers off sharply. "We have no proof that he came up with any of this on his own. Did you, Robert?"

"I…Tony helped," Bruce lied instinctively, biting back a wince.

Brian smiled frostily at Summers and handed the notebook back to him. "There you go. I appreciate your interest, but Robert is perfectly average. Is there anything else?"

"I…no," Summers stuttered, still slightly taken aback by the turn this meeting had taken. "That's all I was…"

"It was nice to speak with you," Brian rose from his chair, reaching for Bruce's wrist to drag him to his feet as well. "Goodnight."

Brian managed to wait until they were at the car before he tightened his grip on Bruce's wrist so suddenly that Bruce stumbled and fell. Brian lifted him to his feet by the collar of his jacket, tearing at the thick curls at the base of Bruce's neck. He shoved Bruce towards the truck and spat, "Get in. When we get home we're going to have a little discussion about what happens when people think you're smart."

Bruce climbed into the passenger's seat and curled against the door, shaking hard and wishing desperately that he could get back out of the car and just run.

* * *

Thor attempted to listen to what Logan was telling his father about him, but found he couldn't bring himself to focus. He couldn't seem to shake his father's words from dinner the other night. He and Odin had not spoken since then, and Thor was glad for it; he did not need his father's ignorance.

"…some concerns some of his other teachers have had," Logan was saying when Thor managed to draw his attention back to the present. Thor leveled a glare at Logan, warning him silently not to bring up anything that might upset his father further, but Logan plowed on regardless. "His grades have been dropping, not drastically, but enough to make a difference. I've notice his fatigue lately is interfering with his performance on the field."

"Really?" Odin pursed his lips and looked down at Thor, disapproving. "And what are you suggesting?"

Logan shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "I think he needs some help. Principal Xavier and I set him up with an appointment with the school counselor for tomorrow, and I think it might do him some good to go talk to someone who's an unbiased third party."

"I think everyone here is slightly underestimating the impact of his situation," Odin forced a smile, trying to look pleasant. "Thor has been through an extremely difficult time, and it makes sense that he is having difficulty readjusting."

"It's been two years," Logan pointed out, his gruff voice softer than usual. "Yeah, the kid has a right to be pissed and upset, but something else is going on here."

Thor spoke up before his father could reply in an attempt to placate both his father and his teacher. "I will go, Father. It is of no consequence. If nothing is wrong, we have nothing to fear."

Odin set his jaw and nodded, clearly irritated with Thor's response. He said through gritted teeth, "I suppose you're right."

Thor couldn't help but fix Logan with a furious glare as his father stood up and beckoned him out of the room.

* * *

Thor scrutinized the numbers on the page of his math book carefully, trying to make some sense of the first problem of the homework. He gave up trying to decipher it after he realized that half of the problem contained Greek letters and looked up from the book to where Bruce was sitting at his desk across the room.

Bruce was hunched over his book, his face so close to the pages that Thor was sure he couldn't really be reading. Bruce's fingers dug into the edge of his desk, and Thor could tell he was distinctly uncomfortable.

Upon closer inspection, Thor realized that Ross had a hand on Bruce's knee. Seating in that class was assigned, and it was purely Bruce's dumb bad luck that got him put next to Ross for the first half of the year. As Thor watched, Ross's hand crept up to the middle of Bruce's thigh. Bruce turned a brilliant shade of red, but didn't speak up or push him away.

Ross's hand moved a few more inches, causing Bruce to cringe and curl his fingers, tearing the pages of his math book. Ross's lips curled into a lazy, satisfied grin, and Thor saw red.

He stood up, clutching his book and notebook to his chest, and crossed the room just as Ross's fingers brushed the inseam of Bruce's jeans. He dropped his book on Bruce's desk, making enough racket to catch Mr. Lehnsherr's attention, and Ross dropped his hand back to his side.

"Bruce, could you lend me assistance on problem one?" Thor asked loudly, gesturing to his notebook. "I seem to having difficulty with reading the Greek letters—"

"You have difficulty reading regular letters, Thor," Loki commented dryly. Some of the students around Loki tittered with laughter. Thor frowned and willed himself not to blush.

He ignored Loki and pressed on, refocusing his attention on Bruce, "And I was hoping you could explain them to me."

"Uh, sure," Bruce smiled hesitantly, shooting Ross a timid glance. Ross hunched over his book innocently, not looking back at Bruce. Bruce motioned to the chair next to him. "Go ahead."

"Don't bother, Banner," Loki called across the room. "There's no point in trying to teach the big oaf anything. It goes right in one ear and out the other."

Thor frowned and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, tugging at the hem of his shirt with his free hand. Bruce smiled mildly at Loki. "I appreciate your concern, but I think I trust my ability to teach than I trust your assessment of your brother's intelligence."

Loki raised an eyebrow coolly, shocked by Bruce's words. His lips curled into a smiled and he leaned forward on his desk. "And I suppose you believe you understand him better than I do? You overestimate your relationship."

"You underestimate him," Bruce snapped, venom seeping into his tone.

"Enough," Mr. Lehnsherr commanded, stepping between Bruce and Loki's desks. "I gave you time to work, not to shout at each other from across the room and air your personal problems." He fixed Loki with a glare, "I could do without the disparaging comments about your brother." His gaze moved to Bruce and softened slightly. He pursed his lips and said, "And you shouldn't let yourself lose control of your anger. Everybody get back to—"

He was cut off by the bell ringing, signaling the end of the day. Mr. Lehnsherr returned to his desk, watching Bruce with an odd expression on his face. Ross pursed his lips in disappointment and stood up, shouldering his backpack. He commented lightly to Bruce over his shoulder, "Took him long enough to notice."

Thor watched Ross stride out of the room with a confused expression tugging at his features, unsure of what the man's words meant. He turned to Bruce, who was gathering his things into his bag and determinedly not looking at Thor. "What does he mean?"

"He's just being a jerk," Bruce mumbled, straightening up. "Don't worry about it, Thor."

"He has done this before?" Thor demanded, his anger growing at the implications. "Why have you not spoken up?"

Bruce glanced back at Mr. Lehnsherr, who was watching them from over the top of his book with sharp interest. He grabbed Thor's wrist and led him out of the room quickly. He let go of him the moment they were in the hallway and turned to face him, his expression bleak. "He usually stops when I keep shoving him off. Today was different, today I just…I froze."

"Why?" Thor asked, intrigued.

Bruce shook his head, rubbing his hand over his mouth nervously. "I…I don't know. I just…I didn't know…" He trailed off and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled again. "Do you have practice tonight?"

"No, I…I have a meeting with the counselor," Thor's upper lip curled in disgust, despite his best attempts to hide his distaste for the idea.

"Drake isn't that bad," Bruce smiled reassuringly. "He's a little cold sometimes, but I guess that's better than someone who gets too emotional. I've been sent there a few times."

"I've never spoken to him," Thor said, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt. He simply had to be honest with Drake, and the man would see that nothing was seriously wrong. He rubbed his hand across his forehead and muttered, "I simply wish to get it over with."

"I'll walk with you," Bruce offered, falling into step next to Thor. "I'm meeting Tony out front anyway."

Thor nodded and clutched his books to his chest, his throat tightening up. He swallowed hard, trying to work up the nerve to ask a question that had been niggling in the back of his mind since the night he'd seen Tony's arms. If anyone would be able to explain it to him, it would be Bruce. After a few long moments passed before he blurted out, "Explain Tony's scars to me."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow at Thor, clearly confused by the request. Thor blushed and stumbled to elaborate. "I simply wish to understand…physically, biologically…why do people…why is there..?"

Understanding crossed Bruce's expression and he nodded. "Oh. Yeah, I…yeah. Are you…is that why Drake wants to talk to you?"

Thor shrugged uncertainly, embarrassed to admit it. Bruce continued speaking without waiting for further explanation. He shrugged and began simply, "Well, it really depends. It can be a chemical imbalance, or there's evidence it can be caused by your environment, if you're under stress or have gone through any kind of trauma. Chemically, there can be an increase of serotonin in the brain, which is a chemical that affects your mood. Doctors can see it in a brain scan, if you got one."

"My father would never approve," Thor muttered, clutching his bag tightly to his chest and trying to process the emotions warring in his chest. It hadn't been his fault if there was something different about him; it was simply biology. It wasn't that he wanted this, or deserved this, or was making this all up in his head; it was the black and white fact that he may have been born with a brain that worked differently.

Bruce lifted his eyes from the ground to meet Thor's with interest. "Why wouldn't he?"

Thor flushed and waved away Bruce's concern, forcing a light laugh. "He's merely old fashioned. He doesn't believe in mental illness."

Bruce laughed bitterly. "Maybe he should meet my father. Then there's no way he could deny they exist."

Thor's brain froze at the casual mention of Bruce's father. Bruce never brought him up, especially not to joke about him. Thor cleared his throat and said, "He believes it is merely laziness and moodiness on my part."

Bruce frowned and looked up at Thor with concern. "Well, he's wrong then, isn't he?"

Thor blinked at Bruce, caught off guard by the short, blunt response, but nodded slowly. "I…I suppose he may be."

Thor had never really considered it before. He'd always just taken his father's word as law; when Odin told Loki and him they were going to America until things in their country settled down enough to be safe for them, he hadn't given it a second thought. When his father signed him up for football, he'd automatically complied, with no thought of whether or not it was what he wanted. His father had been telling him what he wanted since he was very small; he'd never taken the chance to figure it out for himself.

They came to a stop outside the counselor's office. Thor reached out to grip the handle, but hesitated to turn it. He sucked in a short breath and asked softly, "Can they fix it?"

"They can help you manage it," Bruce nodded, and Thor let out a long breath, relief seeping through his chest. "There are different medications, and paired with therapy it could—"

Listening to Bruce's explanation of medications and other types of treatment that showed promise, Thor allowed himself the small hope that he could get better.

* * *

**There it is! I hope you all liked it. I know it's short, but I just felt like I needed to get something out there and this is all I could edit right now. Work is crazy, family is crazy, but so goes life, I guess:) Anyway, next chapter is pretty emotional; minor character death and a kiss you hopefully haven't seen coming (I didn't until I wrote it, anyway). **

**Let me know what you're thinking if you have a second! Your support keeps me going!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

**So here's the next chapter! It is almost close to finishing, by the way. I'm trying to wrap things up in the next few chapters.** **Thank you all so much for your support in writing this. You're all amazing, and I really appreciate the reviews and encouragement. Also, one portion is formatted oddly (there are no indents), but I typed it on here at the last second because I was too lazy to copy and paste from word), so I apologize! It still shouldn't be too difficult to read, I hope.**

**WARNINGS: child abuse, mentions of rape, language, slash. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Ross crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Bruce wit distaste. When Bruce didn't speak up, he snapped irritably, "What did you want me here for?"_

_ Bruce's gaze flickered from the door to Ross for a moment before returning to the door. He plucked at his bottom lip and sank back down onto the couch. He dropped his hands into his lap and said, "I need you to tell them what happened."_

_ "What do you mean?" Ross tensed immediately and leveled Bruce with a glare. "I'm not—"_

_ "I need you to tell them what you've heard coming from my house," Bruce cut him off to continue, praying silently that his voice wouldn't break. "I need you to tell them what you saw when my mother died, I need you to tell them you've seen what my dad's done to me, and I need you to tell them that I need help."_

_ Ross narrowed his eyes at Bruce and said incredulously, "That's what you called me here for? Why the hell do you need me to tell them that? You can tell them more than I can."_

_ "They won't believe me," Bruce replied through gritted teeth. He clenched his hands in his lap and cracked his knuckles nervously, glancing at the door as if he expected his father to burst in and drag him home. He felt like he was going to be sick; the words seemed to stick in his throat. "They don't know anything about him besides the fact that he's one of the most renowned nuclear scientists in the country. And they don't know anything about me besides the fact that I'm the town basket case."_

_ Ross gave a slight nod of agreement, and Bruce continued on. "I just…they won't believe me. I need your help."_

_ "You've been stuck here all day lying to them," Ross raised an eyebrow. "This seems like a sudden change of heart."_

_ Bruce felt a flush of anger rise to his cheeks. He wanted to scream; how fucking easy did everyone think it was to just say 'yes, my father, the man who raised me, the man who taught me how to ride a bike and drive and helped me with my homework all my life, beat the crap out of me because he was sick and wrong and broken'? After repressing and lying his entire life, Bruce wasn't sure he could even say the words. His father had always told him it was no one else's business, and pointed out that no one would believe him anyway._

**_ I mean, what are you, Robert? A C- average, teenage kid who can't even talk without stuttering. Why the hell would anyone believe what you tell them about me? I'm a genius, I've amounted to something in my life, I matter. That's more than anyone can say for you, you ungrateful brat._**

_ Bruce pursed his lips and shook off the memory, trying to ignore the sound of his father's voice echo in his head. He returned his attention to Ross and said, "Yeah, I guess it is. Will you do it?"_

_ "Why should I?" Ross demanded, smirking down at Bruce. "It's your own fault for not doing anything about it for this long."_

_ Bruce rose to his feet and fixed Ross with a serious glare, fuming. He dug his phone out of his pocket and said lowly, "Do you remember that night a year ago? You were pretty drunk."_

_ "Yeah, I remember it," Ross snapped, shifting uncomfortably and shooting a furtive look at the door to the counselor's office. "I'm surprised you do."_

_ "Yeah, I was pretty out of it," Bruce agreed, laughing bitterly. His lips curled into a frown quickly when Ross met his eyes again. "Considering one of your friends drugged me. But I guess they took that into consideration, because they kindly sent me a video the next morning."_

_ The color drained from Ross's face. He spluttered, "You…you wouldn't. You'd show that video to a bunch of cops?"_

_ "If I have to," Bruce said calmly, meeting Ross's gaze challengingly. _

_ Ross poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek and contemplated Bruce for a long moment. His lips curled into an indulgent smile. "I knew I saw it in you."_

_ Bruce quirked an eyebrow questioningly._

_ "You're always so calm," Ross elaborated, shaking his head and smiling ruefully. "And you fly under the radar. But you're a firecracker, aren't you? You're a lot more than you let on."_

_ "I'm just me," Bruce gave him a lopsided smile. _

* * *

Clint toed off his boots at the back door and wandered through the kitchen, absentmindedly picking up the stack of mail on the kitchen table to flip through it. He drifted into the living room, and jumped when Barney's voice came from the couch. "Hey."

Clint narrowed his eyes at his younger brother suspiciously and demanded, "Why are you home so early?"

"Everyone was busy," Barney shrugged, not looking away from the television. He was sprawled out of the couch with a bowl of chips propped in the curve of his elbow. He reached into the bowl and pulled out a handful. "So I came home. I do live here, you know."

"Sometimes it's easy to forget," Clint retorted, taking off towards the hallway.

"You don't have to be such a jerk all the time," Barney called after him, frustration edging into his tone.

Clint whirled around and glared at his little brother, shocked. "Me? I'm the jerk? Have you even looked at yourself lately?"

"Can you please stop acting so goddamn high and mighty?" Barney snapped, sitting up straighter and fixing Clint with a steady glare. "I don't need your crap, not with all the other crap I'm dealing with right now."

"All the other crap you're dealing with?" Clint repeated, his voice rising slightly. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that it was so hard to spend all your time partying. Excuse me for thinking it's difficult to balance school, homework, friends, and a brother who calls drunk off his ass for a ride home three times a week. If Buck ever found out-"

"I don't give a fuck what either of you think!" Barney jumped to his feet, sending the bowl in his lap to the floor. The chips skittered across the hardwood. "It doesn't even fucking matter, Clint! Buck is an asshole, and I don't give a fuck if he finds out."

"What?" Clint asked, confused by Barney's violent reaction. "What do you-?"

Barney dropped back onto the couch and ran his hands over his face. It was a long time before he spoke again; Clint crossed his arms and shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. Finally, Barney sighed and said softly, "He's going to send us back."

Clint stepped back into the living room, sure he'd heard wrong. He swallowed hard and asked hoarsely, "What?"

"He's going to send—"

"No, I heard you," Clint cut Barney off before he could finish. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and asked through his fingers, "I…how do you know?"

"Last time I went to the job site with him I heard him on the phone outside," Barney said softly. "He was…he didn't notice I was listening. He was talking to the foster care agency, told them that business had been bad lately and he couldn't afford to take care of us anymore. He might have to shut down the business." He lifted his gaze to meet Clint's, his eyes wide and desperate. "They want to put us back with Mom."

"If they want us back with Mom, she must have cleaned up," Clint pointed out, his chest tightening. He was having a hard time breathing. He couldn't get the image of his mother lying on the floor and seizing with a needle still in her arm out of his head. It was the last time he remembered seeing her before they took him and Barney away.

"Or they think she has," Barney snapped irritably. "It's not hard to fake, trust me." Clint's mouth twisted into a frown. Barney sighed and continued softly, "I don't want to go back, Clint. She…what if she…"

Clint stared at him from where he was rooted to the floor, torn between anger, disbelief, and hopelessness. "I…no. There's no way…"

"I knew you wouldn't believe me," Barney mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. He rubbed at his eyes irritably and turned away from Clint.

Clint chewed on his bottom lip, regarding Barney with exasperation. "I don't…I'm not saying I don't believe you. I just don't want to… jump to conclusions."

Barney snorted derisively and flopped back on the couch. "Whatever."

Clint crossed the living room to drop onto the couch next to Barney. "Listen, we don't know for sure that that'll happen." Barney didn't look reassured. Clint took a deep breath and added quietly, "If it does, at least we'll be together. It's not like I'll just leave you with her."

Barney's eyebrows drew together and he stared intently at the opposite wall. "I…I'd rather you did. I've put you through hell. You deserve to get out of here."

Clint shook his head. "That's not how being brothers works."

Barney looked up at Clint, and for the first time in months his eyes weren't clouded by alcohol. He smiled sadly and rested his chin on his knees, hugging his arms around his legs. Clint didn't like the resignation he saw in his baby brother's expression, but had no idea how to fix it.

* * *

Natasha smiled politely at Michael, the forced grin feeling fake and foreign on her lips. She attempted to slip her hand out of his, but he kept a tight grip on her fingers under the table. She cleared her throat and glanced at the clock on the opposite wall of the restaurant. "Wow, it's getting late. I should be heading home soon. I promised Dmitri I'd clean the basement by this weekend."

Michael reached for the check with his free hand. "Of course.

"Here, let me get half," Natasha pulled her hand free of Michael's grip and snatched the black book from his hand.

"I've got it," Michael insisted, reaching to take the check back.

Natasha held it out of his reach and dug in the pocket of her coat for her wallet. "You've always got it. I'll pay this time."

"That's not how it works," Michael argued, glancing around the restaurant to make sure no one was watching them. "I'm the man, and I can pay."

"That's not how it works for me," Natasha replied tersely. "I'm a woman, and I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

"But you don't have to," Michael suddenly rose from his seat. Natasha scooted her chair back from the table, watching him warily. He dropped down onto one knee in front of her and fumbled in his pocket for a small velvet box. Natasha's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't believe this was happening,_ this wasn't happening_.

He popped open the box to reveal an elegant diamond ring and asked, his voice choked with nerves, "Will you marry me?"

Natasha gaped at him, shocked speechless. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, but no sound came out. Finally, she managed to squeak, "I…I'm seventeen."

"You turn eighteen in a week," Michael pointed out, still not rising from his knee. "I love you, and I want you to spend the rest of your life with me."

Natasha lurched out of her chair to her feet, catching herself on the edge of the table. She managed to force a smile and asked shortly, "I…will you excuse me for one minute?"

Michael stared up at her, bemused, but nodded. Natasha tried to ignore the sad, resigned look lingering in his eyes.

She turned on her heel and strode towards the bathroom, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Operating almost on autopilot, with no thought in her mind about anything besides getting the hell out of there, she locked the bathroom door behind her and crossed the room to the window. She pushed it open, tossed her high heels out before her, and hauled herself up to straddle to frame before dropping to the ground a few feet below on the other side. She picked up her shoes by the straps and padded down the alleyway, not paying any mind to the cold slush soaking into the feet of her tights.

* * *

Tony cursed under his breath when he opened his bedroom door and ran straight into Dummy. After his initial pride of successfully building a robot, he'd gotten pretty sick of the stupid thing following him around everywhere. He pushed the robot arm out of the way and snapped irritably, "Damn it, you're worse than a dog. Go sit in your corner and stay there."

Dummy whirred lowly and complied, rolling over to the tile floor on the opposite side of Tony's bedroom and settling itself in a corner, looking almost disappointed. Tony rolled his eyes and strode over to his closet to grab a jacket and his keys. He managed to make it to the front hall before he ran into his mother, who was wearing a long, elegant blue dress. Her hair was pinned up in elaborate twists and curls, and she rifled through her purse for her hand mirror to check her makeup. She paused when she caught sight of Tony and beamed at him. "Hello, dear. Your father and I were just leaving. He's got an important dinner meeting tonight with some investors."

Tony shrugged, unconcerned, and tugged on his jacket. "I'm going out anyway."

"Not tonight," Howard breezed into the front hall, adjusting his tie and fidgeting with his jacket lapels. "I don't want you out driving this late. It's dangerous out there of Friday nights."

Tony snorted incredulously. "You can't be serious."

Howard raised an eyebrow in response and continued, "Anyway, Obie has to drop by to leave some files for me, and you need to be here to let him in."

"He has a key," Tony pointed out.

"Did I ask that question?" Howard replied snappishly, picking up a thin folder from the mudroom table. "What's so important that you have to go out for?"

"I was going to see if Bruce was busy," Tony replied tersely. "He's been pretty quiet and stressed since, you know, he watched his mother die."

Howard pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Don't turn this on me. I just think that he lays a lot of pressure on you, and it's unhealthy for you to have to deal with it."

"He has been there for me more than I've ever been there for him," Tony said lowly, his tone laced with anger. "He was there for me when you weren't, and he put up with a hell of a lot a couple years ago; he fucking deserves someone who cares about him just as much."

"What could you possibly have put him through?" Howard demanded, rolling his eyes. "You've practically fed and clothed him, he apparently has spent most of his life here, and you—"

"I tried to kill myself!" Tony shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceiling and resounding through the house. His father was struck speechless, and Tony pressed on, enjoying the power he held over his father with that statement is some twisted way. "My asthma was acting up, I was having attacks every other day. Obie dragged me to the hospital and they thought that my lungs were too weak to last much longer. Remember that? When they thought I was going to die and you were 'stuck in Italy on business'?"

"It turned out to be a false alarm," Howard defended himself.

"But we didn't know that for months!" Tony snapped sharply. "They told me that they couldn't do anything for me, that I either had to stay in the goddamn hospital or leave and spend the rest of my short life doing what I wanted." He swallowed hard, his words sticking in his throat. He'd never had to explain this to anyone before, and it was proving to be more difficult than he'd anticipated. "I didn't want to just…to just leave. I didn't…I was stupid and reckless and I didn't care if I hurt myself, and Bruce stuck with me. He dragged me to a therapist and he forced my meds down my throat for the first couple weeks. You didn't even call." Tony's voice broke and he cleared his throat before adding harshly, "He never…he never left. So I'm sorry, if you don't like him, and I'm sorry if I don't spend time with someone as perfect as Steve Rogers, but I will not apologize for wanting to help him."

Maria gaped at her son wordlessly, her hand covering her mouth. Howard opened his mouth to say something, his expression somewhat softer than it had been before, but was cut off by his phone ringing. He picked it up, his gaze still trained on Tony. "Hello? Yes, I'm on my way. We'll be right there. See you soon."

He slipped his phone back into his breast pocket and drew in a deep breath, tearing his eyes from Tony. "We…we will talk about this when we get home."

Tony watched in disbelief as his father gripped his mother's arm and led her out the front door without another word.

Before the door could close behind them, Tony caught it and called out over the front stoop, "I hate you, you know."

Howard's shoulders tensed, but he didn't stop walking. Tony slammed the door and immediately snuck down it to the floor, curling into a ball and biting his lip hard in an effort to distract himself from the pain in his chest.

* * *

_Steve and Tony both looked up when the door to the office opened. Ross stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him._

_"What did he want?" Tony demanded, jumping to his feet. Steve stood as well, casting a wary glance at Tony._

_Ross shrugged and replied, "He wanted someone to back up his story. He told them his dad hits him."_

_Tony blinked, surprised. "He...he did?"_

_Steve let out a sigh of relief, and felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. He sagged against the wall, allowing relief to overtake him for a moment._

_Ross snorted derisively, noticing Steve's reaction, and said, "Yeah, took him long enough. Not like either of you two did anything to help."_

_Tony tensed and Steve reached out to grip his arm again. They didn't need a fight breaking out in the middle of the hall. Tony shook him off and regarded Ross coolly. "Unlike some people, we didn't want to pressure him into something he didn't want. Now I suggest you get the hell out of here before I have Roger's punch your face in."_

_Steve sighed, "Tony..."_

_Tony swatted his arm and said, "Hired muscle doesn't get paid to talk."_

_Ross shook his head and rolled his eyes. He started to push by Steve, but paused for a moment and jabbed his finger into Steve's chest. "Good luck with your mess of a boyfriend, prick. You two deserve each other."_

_Ross stalked down the hall and disappeared out the front entrance of the school, letting the door slam behind him._

_"Boyfriend?" Tony turned to Steve, and regarded him with interest. _

_Steve frowned at Tony and shook his head, trying to keep the blush from rising up his neck. He muttered, "Ross is just being a jerk, don't worry about it."_

_Tony eyed him doubtfully, but pulled out his phone and started scrolling through his contacts. He motioned for Steve to go into the office and said, "You go see when they're going to let Bruce go, I'll call the others. He's probably starving, I don't think he's eaten since Clint brought him that sandwich."_

_Steve nodded and turned the door handle to the office. He hesitated for a moment, turning back to look at Tony. Tony had his phone pressed to his ear and was talking animatedly, waving his free hand in the air as he berated Clint for ignoring his texts earlier that day and commanding him to meet them in the town square in an hour. He smiled a little bit, despite himself, and pushed the door open to go and find Bruce._

Steve picked at the dry chicken on his plate with little interest, casting a glance towards the phone. He hadn't heard from Bucky in a couple weeks, and he was starting to get worried. The only other time he hadn't called, he'd been hurt in some kind of away mission he wasn't allowed to tell Steve anything about. He could feel Rick and Sharon looking at each other and then at him with concern, but elected to ignore them.

He started in surprise when the doorbell rang.

Rick set his napkin on the table and stood up to answer it, casting a curious glance at Sharon. She shrugged, obviously not having any more of an idea than Rick of who could be there.

If Steve leaned back far enough in his chair, he could just barely make out the strip of green uniform in the crack of the front door. Rick's shoulders stiffened and he asked gruffly, "Yes?"

"Mr. Jones?" one of the men at the door held out his hand. "I'm Lieutenant Rand, and I believe you know Father Mitchell?"

"Yes, good to see you, Father," Rick reached out to shake the hand of the priest. "What can I help you with?"

"Would you mind if we came in?" Father Mitchell asked softly.

Steve's blood turned to ice. His eyes grew foggy and he stared at Sharon blankly for a moment before he managed to say softly, "He…he's dead."

Sharon lifted her gaze to meet Steve's sharply. "You don't know that. They may just want—"

"It's the same officer who told me about my father," Steve cut her off, his voice hoarse with shock. He tried to swallow, but his spit seemed to stick in his throat. He shook his head in disbelief and mumbled, "He can't be…"

"Steve, we don't know," Sharon repeated more firmly, her voice shrill in Steve's ears. He pushed his chair away from the table, feeling detached and numb, and stood up.

He could hear the men in the living room, speaking softly. "…pronounced dead. I'm sorry for your loss."

Steve gripped the back of his chair tightly, suddenly off balance and dizzy. When he felt steady enough, he pushed off the chair and propelled himself to the front hall, stumbling over the shoes by the front door. He fumbled for his jacket and pulled on the first coat he grabbed.

"Steve!" Sharon snatched the back of his coat and tried to drag him back towards the kitchen. "I think you need to calm down. Come into the living room and let's talk to them…"

"There's nothing to talk about," Steve turned on his heel to face his adoptive mother, tearing out of her grip and leveling her with a glare. "He's dead; nothing they can say to me will ever, ever be able to fix that." His voice broke before he could complete his sentence, and his eyes stung smartly. He pressed his hand over his mouth and turned from Sharon so she couldn't see his face, feeling like his heart was being torn out of his chest. He felt cold; a horrible, sickening cold that seemed to sink down into his bones and freeze the marrow.

"What's going on out here?" Rick appeared in the hall, looking strained and red eyed.

Steve took advantage of Sharon's momentary distraction to take off out the front door.

* * *

Natasha glanced up from the box she was sorting through to get a look outside through the sliding glass door of the daylight basement. It was still snowing outside, and the howling wind shook the glass in its panes. She placed a few dusty knick knacks on the table and absentmindedly toyed with them, her mind wandering to Michael. Her chest tightened immediately at the thought of him and she forced herself to focus on cleaning instead.

As she ducked her head to return to her project, she caught a glimpse of green out of the corner of her eye. She set the box aside and stood up, approaching the door slowly and peering through the heavily falling snow.

There was definitely a person plodding through her backyard; she could make out their outline well enough. After a few seconds, she realized who it was and yanked the sliding door opened, shocked. "Steve? What are you doing out here?"

"What?" Steve started and whirled around to face her, startled. His eyes were puffy and his cheeks were streaked with dried tear tracks; he looked miserable.

Her stomach sank; she had a feeling she knew what had caused him to wander out of his house and through the streets aimlessly. She stepped aside and beckoned him towards the doorway. "Come inside for a minute, you must be freezing."

Steve considered her offer for a few moments before trudging through the snow towards her. He kicked off his feet before he stepped into the basement, getting most of the snow off of his boots. Natasha pulled the door closed behind him and rubbed her arms, trying to generate some warmth. She shivered and muttered, "God, it's freezing outside. What are you doing?"

"I was…" Steve gestured vaguely in the direction he'd been going. He looked completely lost. He shrugged and cleared his throat. "I…I don't know. I just…I needed a walk."

"In a snowstorm," Natasha nodded slowly. "That…that makes sense."

Steve sighed and ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the short blonde locks in frustration. Natasha watched him warily, evaluating what must be running through his mind. Steve didn't just go wandering around the neighborhood when he was a little upset. He was calm and rational and calculating. There wasn't a lot she could imagine that would throw him. She'd been fearing this moment ever since Bucky left. She and Bucky had dated a couple years before, but broken it off amicably. She'd still seen him around, but she couldn't claim to feel much of a connection between them; at least, she reminded herself, it was nothing like the connection he and Steve had.

Steve rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing away the tears and moisture from walking through the falling snow, and fixed Natasha with a curious look. She raised an eyebrow at him challengingly and asked quietly, "What?"

Steve closed the distance between them and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. Natasha kissed him back, one hand cupping his neck and the other laying on his chest. She could taste his tears on his lips.

When they drew apart, he looked down at her with an odd look of desperation and helplessness on his face and asked, "Anything?"

Natasha considered a moment before shrugging and replying honestly, "No."

Steve let go of her and paced back and forth in front of her, digging his hands into the pockets of his damp jacket. "Me neither."

"Why did you do that?" Natasha asked. She didn't inject any blame into her tone, simply interest. Kissing Steve was infinitely better than kissing Michael, but it was nothing like she imagined kissing Clint.

Not that she had imagined kissing Clint. That would be a waste of time.

Steve shrugged and paused in his pacing in front of her. "I just thought…I liked Peggy a lot. She was a great girl, and I wanted to love her, but I never…I never felt anything."

"So you were hoping I would make you feel something?" Natasha asked, still not completely understanding. With anyone else, she would have been suspicious of the sexual undertones of the conversation, but somehow Steve didn't seem to be implying them, or even noticing them at all. For him, they may not have even been there. Natasha never failed to be amazed by how innocent he could be.

"I was hoping it was just Peggy that wasn't right," Steve mumbled, red creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. "But I guess it's not…it's not you, or her, it's me."

"It's you?" Natasha repeated, hopelessly lost.

Steve sighed and rubbed his eyes irritably. He said frankly, "Actually, it's mostly Bruce."

"Oh," Natasha said, comprehension dawning. "I understand." She paused a moment before adding hesitantly, "There's nothing wrong with being gay."

That was the wrong thing to say; Steve's shoulder stiffened and he set his mouth in a thin line, spluttering, "I'm not…I mean, I don't think…"

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

Steve shrugged helplessly and flapped his hands uselessly, frustrated. "I…I really don't have time to worry about that right now. Labeling is—"

"Are you going to lecture me on labeling?" Natasha asked, amused. She allowed a small smile to cross her lips. "I guess that's what happens when you fall for a hippie."

"Bruce isn't a hippie," Steve said tersely, his reluctant smile betraying his harsh tone.

"He survives mainly on tea, granola, and flax seed bread," Natasha pointed out dryly.

Steve actually laughed a little but at that, but it came out more like a sob than anything, and a few seconds later he was crying. He buried his face in his hands and turned away from Natasha, trying to hide his tears from her and apologizing through the hiccupping sobs racking his frame. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't…I should…"

Natasha put a hand on his shoulder and turned him back to face her, wincing sympathetically. Steve blinked a few times, trying to force himself to stop crying, but more tears quickly fell to replace the ones he blinked away. She hugged him tightly, wrapping his larger frame in her arms as best she could. His forehead pressed against her shoulder and his fingers dug into the back of her shirt. His body shook with sobs, and she rubbed his back, not speaking.

There was nothing she could say.

* * *

**So there it is! I hope you all liked it. I'm working hard to edit this as fast and as thoroughly as I can, though I ideally want to include a few more scenes. I just have to actually write them:)**

**Leave a review if you have a second! You all keep me going:)**

**Thanks for reading!**


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